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OCT • 1941 
FANTASY FICTION 













OJN A LIMB Anthony Boucher 

An article on the prophecies of Nostradamus the Prophet 
who named names and places— and has been proven in- 
credibly accurate. What specific prophecies did he make 
concerning our time? A famous author of detective stories 
does a little analyzing of the clues Nostradamus left. 















SMOKE GHOST Fritz Leiber, Jr. 

The ghosts of yesteryear were white-swathed spirits 
haunting echoing corridors. The ghosts of today— may 
be of a different kind, things of grime and the stale, dead 
air of a city's smoke-^ 

THE DOLPHIN'S DOUBLOONS . . Silaki Ali Hassan 

The dolphin was stranded in a tidal pool, side by side 
with an equally stranded, and very drunk little Cockney 
sailor. And that led to the peculiar case of the Dolphin's 
Doubloons, for who'd be better at looting Davy Jones' 
Locker than a properly grateful dolphin— 



THE LAND OF UNBEASON . L. Sprague de Camp & Fletcher Pratt 

Heing the part of a Midsummer Night's Dream that Shakespeare didn't 
discuss. For when a Fairy set out to collect a Changeling— and mistook 
a bowl of high-proof Scotch for a bowl of milk — 







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Contents for October, 1941, VoU V, No . 3 

John W. Campbell, Jr,, Editor, Catherine Tarrant, Ass Editor 



\ 



Novel 

THE LAND OP UNREASON . . . ... • L, Sprague de Camp and Fletcher Protf 8 

The fairy-folk always were a bit naive — and when a messenger 
from Titania seeking a changeling mistook a bowl of high-proof 
Scotch for a bowl of milk — » 






Novelettes 

A .GOOD KNIGHT'S WORK . Robert Bloch 66 

The gentleman in the solid-iron knightshirt" turned out to be 
useful against modem menaces like gangsters and Tommy-guns! 

A GNOME THERE WAS . , . . Henry Kuttner 108 

He wanted to be a mine labor organizer, but an accident made him 
into a gnome. So— a gnome organizer there was. Or tried to be — 






I 

It 



-ll 









Li 



Short Stories , 

% NO NEWS TODAY . . . . . Cleve Cortmill 59 

You are specifically warned, told and pleaded with not to believe 
this item. It wouldn’t be good for you — 

i PRESCIENCE Nelson S. Bond 76 

' “ The psychiatrist had no fears, because he wasn’t afraid of death as 

ordinary people were. He knew there was no after-life. Or 
thought so — - 



-FINGER! FINGER! 



Margaret Ronao 81 

There is a pleasure in bitterness when an utter and horrible defeat 
has been endured — 



BORROWED GLORY ....... ,. ‘. L. Ron Hubbard 85 

Concerning the price of a single day — of glory. Is life too much — 
or only a fair price to pay — 

-SMOKE GHOST Frit* Leiber, Jr. 10© 

The ghosts of old were white, foggy things. The ghosts of today’s 
grimy, smoky cities must be things of soot and smudge — 

THE DOLPHIN’S DOUBLOONS SilokS All Hasson 122 

A stranded dolphin caught in a tidal pool, and a stranded Cockney 
sailor caught in a foreign port— and who could better raid Davy 
Jones’ locker than a grateful dolphin? 



A LIMB 



Article 



NEXT ISSUE 
ON SALE 
OCT. 24th 
25c PER COPY 



Printed In the T7.8.A. 



. • Anthony Soueher 92 

A famous detective story author seeks clues in Nostradamus’ 
prophecies. 



Readers * Departments 

Of Things Beyond . 6 

Book Review .......... 121 

Illustrations by: Cartier, Kramer, Orban and Schneeman 

•Bimonthly publication issued by Street & Smith Publications. Incorporated, 79 Seventh 
Avenue, New Yorh City. Allen L. Crammer. President; Henry W. Ralston, Vice 
President; Gerald H. Smith, Treasurer and Secretary. Copyright, 1941, in U. 8. A. 
and Great Britain by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. The editorial contents 
of this magazine have- not been published before, are protected by- copyright 
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OF THINGS BEYOND 

Unknown, becomes Unknown Worlds in larger edi- classic ghost story type Unknown Worlds rather tends 

tion this issue, perhaps needs some introduction to new to ignore — because it has been too thoroughly for- 

readers, perhaps a sort of rededication to its old friends, mulized. Ghosts, vampires, werewolves — all the stock 

In handling material as delicate as fantasy must be, characters of stock fantasy horror, have been so long 

no formula is possible, no standardization on methods cast in a stereotyped mold as to paralyze them. Un- 

of presentation, handling or type of material can be al- known Worlds is trying to develop a. more modern 

lowed. But a basic philosophy as to what constitutes mythology. If we 4 " do discuss werewolves, why let it 

fantasy, and what makes for the modern type Unknown be the troubles of a werewolf beset by an overzealous 

Worlds intends to present is both possible and neces- and highly efficient local dogcatcher laboring under a 

sary. misapprehension, as to his identity. If it’s vampires you 

It seems to us that inasmuch as fantasy is no more want — tradition doesn't explain what happens to a vam- 

than a specialized form of literature in general, the first pire subjected to X-ray bombardment, or treated to a 

essential is that ascribed to general fiction — to hold a dose of mustard gas (which has a garliclike odor!), 

mirror up to life. But fantasy’s sole function is enter- But mythology has, in the past, been a serious busi- 
tainment ; neither instruction nor “great truths of life” ness, developed by priests and chieftains to scare their 

belong in the field. Hence the mirror of life that fan- , reluctant followers into good behavior. Humor had 

tasy presents should be an amusingly — and sometimes little place there. Folklore tended toward two types ; 

chillingly — distorting mirror. For comedy, the distor- mothers and 1 nursemaids developed the “Goblins’ll 

tion shall be of the Coney Island amusement park order, gitcha if — you — don’t — watch— out !” technique for 

bulbous and twisted out of any semblance of reality to purposes very similar to the more formal mythology, 

a point where the onlooker can laugh with a hearty And the folklore of fairies, leprechauns and the like, a 

“Thank the Lord, I don’t look like that!” light, amusing folklore, was intended to amuse other 

The essence of fantasy horror — the most effective, adults — and, incidentally, any children handy, 

lingering kind — is much the same. Again the distort- There was very little amusing fantasy in the past ; 
ing mirror, but now the distortion is skillfully controlled, most of it was designed to scare the brats into the 

a slight twisting of things normal that gives them a quivering shakes instead of having them bawl half the 

') queer, malign aspect. The color of the glass is just a night. We’ll forget that tradition along with the Old 

bit wrong, the illumination thrown on it is subtly dis- English Ghost Story, that began “Had I known what 

colored so that faces reflected in it appear sallow and horror I was to meet that dread and dreary night, never 

' bluish, corpselike. The features reflected are clearly . would I have set forth into the rain-lashed darkness.’’ 
identifiable ; they are close enough to exact truth to give We’ll try a little laughter — for fantasy lends itself 
pause, to make the distortion seem rather a sudden ideally to pricking the pompous dignity of this crazy 

realization of the hitherto hidden true aspect of things. world. 

Hardest of all types to write, that variety of horror. ' And we’ll also try a bit of the slight-distortion type, 

fantasy can be delightfully chilling. It sticks with one. too. Next issue, in fact. Cleve Cartmill has a feature 

That feeling of “Thank the Lord I don’t look like that — novel called “Bit of Tapestry,’’ a novel of a small town, 

do I ?” remains to highten the drama of little daily of a garage attendant — and three old maid sisters who 

things. ' help him out a little in his trouble. They’re a curious 

The best examples of that type of work are, perhaps, trio, two blind, and the third with but one good eye, 

“Fear,” by L. Ron Hubbard; “None But Lucifer,” by two deaf — and, because they look much alike, seem to 

^ L. Sprague de Camp and H. L. Gold ; and Hubbard’s delight in changing names or something. The one who 

“Death’s Deputy.” Have you noticed, by the way, with . can see may be Emily, or Margaret today, and say she’s 
what unpleasant precision the world followed the out- sister Gertrude when you meet her tomorrow. They 

lined plans of “Alexander P. Johnson” — Lucifer — as all three go in for offhand, and fatally accurate, prophe- 

foretold in “None But Lucifer”? ' cies. 

The second type of horror-fantasy involves nonhuman And there’s the man who goes around distributing 
beings and unreal situations as prime movers. “Drac- legacies and giving good jobs — for a plausible seeming 
ula” of course is the classic example ; Theodore Stur- reason. Nice bit of work, we thought. The three sis- 
geon’s “It” was a very neat modern example. The ters make interesting characters — The Editor. 




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7 



W HETHER you’re in the service, an indus- 
trial worker, a buyer of defense bonds, a 
woman at home, or simply th$ man in the street 
— you are actively aiding in national defense! 
America is united in total defense during this 
unlimited national emergency, and every Ameri- 
can is doing his part. 

NATIONAL MAGAZINE is all-out for national 
defense. It brings you not only the latest, most 
authoritative and informative articles, but also 
fiction, features and humor. In a country where 
reading tastes are still undictated, Americans 
find a perfect answer to what they want to know 
and what they enjoy most in NATIONAL 
MAGAZINE. 

The September issue offers you — 

THE MAN BETWEEN THE CHEVRONS by 
General George C. Marshall 

THE SOUL OF THE SEVENTH by Frank 
Gruber 

THE SERVICE PISTOL by Ray Trullinger 

Another SPIKE TO BUTCH Sidesplitter by 
Technical Sergeant Herbert E. Smith. 

Another Denny Slade Story by Harold Montanye 

— and plenty of additional articles and fiction; 
humor, comics and cartoons. 

Street & Smith’s 

I 

M A © A 1 0 M . I 

September Ossuo 

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8 



THE LAND OF UNREASON 



By L. Sprague de 



Camp and Fletcher Pratt 




• The Little Folk always were naive, and when one sent to collect a 



Changeling mistook a bowl of high-proof Scotch for a bowl of milk — 



Illustrated by 

The moon broke free. As the torn clouds trailed out 
in wisps and streaks, it seemed to rock among them 
with a boatlike motion, rising over the Pennine moors. 
Small wonder, thought Fred Barber, that people's as far 
apart as Assyria and Hawaii made it the celestial ship 
of their mythology. 



Edd Cartier 

Beside him, Mr. Gurton grunted, spat into a warm 
night rendolent of broom and dog rose, and reached 
across to knock his pipe against the doorpost. The few 
last live sparks in the heel traced .an intricate pattern of 
red down the dark. 

“Time were,” remarked Mr. Gurton, “when Pd have 



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THE LAND OF UNREASON 



9 



said that looked beautiful. Nah all a man can think of 
is t’ damned jerries on our necks befoor moornin'." 

As though to furnish a comment on the relative unim- 
portance of jerries in a world that held higher things, a 
voice called from within: “Sooper's ready/' 

Barber crushed out his cigarette and took two steps 
toward the door. As he turned, the tail of his eye 
caught in the moonlit landscape a flicker of something 
that did not belong. He froze, at gaze. It was there, 
all right — a jagged row of crimson flashes climbing up 
the sky from some point below the horizon. Barber 
caught his breath. 

“Leeds is catchin' it," said Mr. Gurton’s low-pitched, 
evenly stressed voice. They stood watching for a mo- 
ment till the dull boom , boom , beroom drifted to them 
along the avenue of sound made by the valley of the 
Aire. Then Gurton, as though the noise had released 
him from a spell, flung the door open. 

It snapped to behind them. With an. extra tug to in- 
sure its tightness, Gurton led the way down a passage 
illuminated only by an overflow of light from the living 
room. He jerked his thumb at a curtained door as they 
passed it. “Bloody fine world to bring a nipper oop in," 
said he. 

Mrs. Gurton accosted them at the entrance to the liv- 
ing room, a thin-faced woman with hair pulled tight 
back and nervous hands. “S$k 3 Jock," she said, “don't 
you know it's St. John's Eve? They say 'twill bring t' 
child bad loock all his life long to talk so abaht him to- 
night." She managed a smile in Barber's direction, but 
there was a hint of earnestness in the voice and the 
movement with which she caught her apron. 

Gurton smiled slowly. “Nah, lass," he said, with the 
patience of a man going over the gambits of a long- 
familiar argument, “that's nowt boot superstition. What 
would t' vicar say?" He sighed. “Maybe t' flashes we 
saw were nowt but fairy fires." 

Boom . Boomity. Boom . 

“That were Bradford," remarked Mr. Gurton. 

Oh, hell, why couldn't the war let him alone? Why 
couldn't he let the war alone? They would be at it 
again, half the night. 

He wished he had gone on to Scotland as he had 
planned, instead of letting young Leach talk him into 
finishing his convalescence in a Yorkshire cottage. “I 
know just the place for you." Damn young Leach for 
a plausible, well-intentioned ass ! It was the plausible, 
well-intentioned people that "made the real trouble in the 
world, not the malicious ones.' If Chamberlain had not 
been — 

Mr. Gurton set his knife against his plate with a 
small clink and looked at the clock. It read 10 :45. 

BOOM ! 

The dishes rattled slightly. The savory was a slice of 
toast upon which reposed a small and very dead sardine. 
Mrs. Gurton said; “I kept your toast ’ot special, Mr. 
Barber." 

“Thanks ever so much," said Barber. It was luke- 
warm. Mr. Gurton picked up his sardine with a long, 



knobby machine-oil-blackened hand. It vanished, and 
his own decently frigid toast after it. 

Lukewarm, thought Barber. His mind was divided 
into two parts. One part ran desperately around a great 
black hole that was the War and all the things that came 
up out of it and went down into it.' Lukewarm, said the 
other part. He tried to distract himself with the ques- 
tion of why Luke should be less warm than the other 
evangelists. Why not Matthew-warm, Mark-warm, 
John-warm? Why the evangelists, for that matter? 
Why not Adolf-warm, which would be hell-hot? 

Boomboom. 

' Mr. Gurton rose and put on a cloth cap, with a 
creased and sagging peak that shadowed all of his cada- 
verous face except his long chin. He said : “You'll not 
worry, Mr. Barber. Unless they coom ower this way to 
bomb Keighley, all's well 'ere. Good-neet." His brisk 
-tread hardly showed the limp as he went to get his 
bicycle and pedal off to work. 

Mrs. Gurton looked after him calmly. The door 
banged. All at once a stream of talk burst from her 
lips, as though the sound had released a spring that held 
her tongue prisoner. The war, the war, Barber's mind 
kept saying to him from the background, his ears only 
partly registering this monotonous flow of sound. 

“ — ma aunt's yoong man. I remember 'e were 'urt i' 
t' gurt war, joost t' way Jock were, only it were a shell 
and noot a airplane bomb that fell i’ t' trench joost when 
they were 'avin' breekfast and 'e were earin' ploom-and- 
apple, and always after that when’ver 'e 'eerd a sharp 
sound like a mauter-car backfirin’ it made him retch, 
and 'e did say it were all because he saw a black cat — " 
Taptap . 

Mrs. Gurton was opening the door. The lamplight 
fell dimly on a small boy with the plucked look English 
small boys have, and a bicycle, and an anxious, excited 
face. 

He should be calmed with light conversation. “Calm 
them with light conversation before undertaking the 
diplomatic approach," Barber's old chief in the State 
Department had told him before letting him go out on 
his first mission, the vice-consulship at Seville. 

The boy was talking in a high voice : “Please moom, a 
gurt bomb 'it near t’ Winstanley's 'oose, and Mrs. Win- 
stanley's 'urt soomat nasty and Dr. Thawley says please 
would you coom — " 

“Wait a bit," said Mrs. Gurton. Barber saw the eyes 
regard him sharply over her shoulder as she picked up 
her. shawl. 

He stood up a little too quickly; his head began to 
throb. He said; “Can’t I—" 

“Nah, Mr. Barber, remember what t' doctor telled 
you ; s'ouldn't strain yoursep. You go off to bed like a 
good lad." She was out of the door before he had a 
chance to argue— the back door, on some errand, then in 
again, through the house and out the front door into the 
warm night, where things went boomboom. 



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10 



UNKNOWN WORLDS 



Barbejr slumped back into the uncomfortable chair, 
his legs spreading to find an easier angle. His head 
ached. It was not that one feared death after having 
the possibility so long as a familiar companion. It was 
this living on and waiting to drop dead after being 
clipped on the head by a bomb-splinter or piece of 
shrapnel— he had never' learned which — as you ran out 
of the Embassy into the night when the German raiders 
came. British or German ? German or British ? Some- 
body had thrown into that night a missile that struck a 
neutral American in a quarrel that was none of his. 
Diplomatic immunity did not, he reflected, exist in the 
material world. It was a purely spiritual quality, and he 
was feeling sorry for hijnself, which — 

j Bjootn. Boom . 

Oh, for Heaven’s sake! Why couldn’t they let up? 
Why couldn’t anybody let up? If he had been more 
sure of Kaja, of where she might be spending that night 
when the bombers came, die wouldn’t have run out of 
the Embassy. If he could be more sure of Kaja now, he 
wouldn’t be miserable. He allowed his mind to dwell 
on Kaja, pleasant thought ; her red hair and long silky 
legs, and the fact that although she had a straight nose 
and Hungarian name and claimed to be from Budapest, 
she was unquestionably Jewish. 

Kaja, pleasant thought, always looking light enough 
to fly. The fragment of a song occurred to , him — “I 
wonder who’s kissing her now” — and he smiled wryly. 
Anybody who could buy her enough Scotch. Kaja pre- 
ferred Scotch to champagne. .It was a good drink, 
Scotch. Useful when a man couldn’t sleep. 

He got up, more slowly -this time, and dug his bottle 
of Scotch out, pouring himself a hefty dram. He 
swashed it around in the glass, staring at the pale orange 
liquid. He lifted the glass. 

Berootn . 

And set it down again. With a trick of automatic 
memory his mind had jerked back to the picture of Mrs. 
Gurton going out the back door. She had had some- 
thing in her hand, a bowl, a bowk of — milk.. Milk? 
The Gurtons did keep a cat. Why milk to the back 
door? 

Fred Barber remembered that Mrs. Gurton had said 
this was St. John’s Eve, the twenty-third of June, the 
day before Midsummer Day. Oh, yes, something in 
“The Golden Bough.” You leave milk out for the Little 
People -that night, especially if there is a baby in the 
house, for unless the Little People receive their tribute, 
they are likely to steal the child and leave a changeling. 
Interesting survival ; who would have believed that a 
woman whose husband ran a drill press in a munitions 
factory and who herself went to nurse a neighbor 
through a bomb wound, would leave milk at the door 
for fairies ? Almost worth writing a sardonic little note 
about, to be sent to The New Yorker which would re- 
turn him a check no doubt, to be spent on Scotch for 
Kaja. 

Milk. 

Fred Barber liked milk, a fact which he concealed 
with care from the crowd in London. He had been 



brought up on a drink of milk before bedtime. It made 
him sleep. But the war and milk-rationing had made 
him go without, like many others to whom milk was 
more of a hobby than a necessity. Mrs. Gurton could 
have it for the baby, of course. But if she were going 
to give it to the fairies, why, Fred Barber argued to 
himself with a grin, he was as good a fairy as any 
who would be abroad that night. The mission of fairies 
was to bring gifts, and he was bringing the Gurtons a 
pound sterling a week. 

Milk. The mere idea of drinking it instead of the 
Scotch gave him a sense of virtue and power. His mind 
flashed back to the determination with which he had set 
out on his career. If he could recover some of that, the 
old pep, a little crack on the head wouldn’t matter. He 
could demonstrate a capacity for hardness to himself, 
recall the sense of destiny that had filled him once. To 
hell with the Scotch, and Kaja, too. He strode to the 
door, his mind so intent on the peculiar nobility of using 
milk instead of Scotch as a sleeping powder that he car- 
ried the glass with him. 

The moonlight showed the bowl, sure enough, a 
pale circle beside one of the flowerpots that lined the 
back of the cottage. Barber stuck his finger in the 
bowl and tasted. .It was milk — trust Mrs. Gurton. He 
set down the glass, and as the bombs in the distance 
continued their infernal beat, lifted the bowl in both 
hands, drinking slowly and with relish. 

Over the edge of the vessel he could see the red glow 
of something burning in Bradford, with searchlight 
beams flickering cobwebby above. And what would 
the fairies of St. John’s Eve do now, poor things, with 
no milk and bombs falling on their heads? Fred Bar- 
ber set the bowl down, and then grinned like a small 
boy in the dark as inspiration came to him. They could^ 
drink Scotch ! 

He poured the slug of Scotch into the bowl, watching 
the last dregs of the milk weave through it. He chuck- 
led at the thought of Mrs. Gurton ’s expression when 
she found the milk of which she had robbed the baby 
so mysteriously transmuted.' The sense of languor that 
presaged instant slumber was still wanting, as it had 
been ever since his injury. But he knew now it would 
come. He was at peace. 

Even the little night light which had been necessary 
since his injury failed to jexercise its customary irri- 
tating effect. Instead, Barber stretched luxuriously, 
reaching his arms above his head. His hand encoun- 
tered a book, hanging there in the little over-bed shelf, 
and the idea of reading himself to sleep occurred. What 
was the book ? 

He examined it under the night light. A worn copy 
of old “Chatterbox,” belonging obviously to the elder 
of the Gurton children, now a registered boy aboard 
one of his majesty’s trawlers, bouncing around some- 
where in the cold Atlantic. Well, “Chatterbox” would 
do as well as a detective story to throw one’s mind out 
of gear for purposes of slumber. He opened the book 



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at random, and began reading at the top of a page, mid- 
way of some G. A. Henty-ish tale of the Crusades : 

— in haste to reach his son at the other side of the river, 
would not wait till the bridge was clear, but plunged his horse 
into the water and tried to swim across. But Frederick was 
weighted down with armor and the stream was deeper than 
he thought. Horse and men were carried away, and it is sup- 
posed they were drowned. 

But his body was never found, and in Germany it is believed 
he never died. They say that Frederick Barbarossa, the great 
red-bearded king, is in his castle of the Wartburg. He sits at 
the head of his council table, asleep, and has been there so long 
that his beard has grown through the table. Ravens fly round 
the castle. Once in a hundred years Frederick sends a page to 
see whether the world needs him, and when he finds it does not — 

Barber let the book slip from his hands, thinking how 
odd it was that the boy who. had read this legend of 
Germany should now be fighting Germans. But that 
was a different kind of Germans, a noble king who went 
on a crusade against just the kind of force the modern 
Germany represented — and his mind drifted off into a 
hazy picture of fairies. Crusaders, Kaja and the Gur- 
tons. 

Tik. 

The door hinge, faintly, as though someone had 
moved the door through a few minutes of arc. Then 
again — tik — tik — tik , tik-tik-tiktiktik, creeceak — 

Barber, fully awake now, looked toward the door. It 
was open, and something coming through it. He 
couldn't be sure in the gloom, but it looked like a face, 
an incredible face that might have come from a comic 
strip. The loose lips were drawn back in a grin so ex- 
tended that the corners of the mouth were out of sight. 
For all Barber could tell, the grin went all the way 
'round and met in back, like Humpty-dumpty's. The 
ears were pendulous ; over the grin was a hairless head 
bearing a pair of knobbed antennae. 

Oh, well, that, said Fred Barber to himself. With 
that strange double vision, outside and inside of one's 
personality, that comes at the edge of sleep, he felt cer- 
tain he was dreaming and slipped down into the blank 
again. 

II. 

He was lying on his side, one arm curled under his 
head and blue moonlight ail around him. If— 

He became aware that the fingers of the hand under- 
neath were touching grass. He heaved himself to a sit- 
ting posture, now bolt wide awake. Fropi beyond his 
own feet the face of the dream was grinning under 
knobbed antennae, which pricked eagerly toward him 
like the horns of a snail. Behind, Barber was conscious 
of other crowding figures as he tried to concentrate on 
what knobhorns was saying. 

“ — mickle bit o' work, moom." Knobhorns spread 
his arms and let the hands dangle from a pair of loose 
wrists, swaying slightly like a tightrope walker. “ 'E 
were that 'eavy. Yc." 

There was a little ripple of suppressed amusement 
behind Barber, with a clear contralto voice rising out 
of it: 



“Wittold! Is’t so you were taught to address the" 
queen’s majesty? What said you?" 

The mobile features regrouped themselves from a grin 
into an expression of comic and formidable sullenness. 

“I said ’e were 'eavy." 

“Aye. One needs not your ass' ears to have caught 
so much. But after that?" 

Barber swiveled. The contralto belonged to a beauty 
built on the ample lines of the members of a showgirl 
chorus he had once seen, justifiably advertised as the 
“Ten Titanic Swede-hearts." He caught a glimpse of 
patrician nose, masterful chin, and dark hair on which 
rode a diadem with a glowing crescent in front. 

The being with the antennae replied: “I said nowt 
after that. 7c." 

Barber experienced an odd sensation; some sixth 
sense informed him that the individual was . not quite 
sure of his own veracity. The tall lady had no such 
doubts : 

“Ah, 'tis time for a shaping, indeed," she cried, “when 
my husband makes messengers of louts that lie bare- 
faced ! What is't, I asked, some new form of address in 
mock compliment from my gentle lord? You said Id" 

Antennae shifted his feet, opened his mouth, and ab- 
ruptly fell down. The others clustered around him, ‘ 
twittering, babbling, and pushing, a singular crowd. 

Some were as tall as he was and some small, down to 
a foot in height, and their appearance was as various as 
their size. Many, especially of the smaller ones, had 
wings growing out of their backs ; some were squat and 
broad, as though a gigantic hand had pushed them 
groundward while they were in a semifluid state. An 
individual with a beard and wall eyes that gave him an 
expression of perpetual surprise was dressed like a 
Palmer Cox brownie ; others wore elaborate clothes that 
might have been thought up by King Richard II, and 
some had no more clothes than a billiard ball. 

Pink elephants, thought Barber, or am I going . 
nuts ? One half of his mind was rather surprised to find 
the other half considering the question with complete 
detachment. 

“What ails yon wight?" demanded the regal lady* 
who had not condescended to join the crowd. 

~ The brownie looked around. “A sleeps ; plain in- 
sensible like a stockfish, and snoring." There was a 
chatter of other voices: “An enchantment, for sure — 
Send for Dos Erigu — The leprechauns again, they 
followed the king — Nay, that’s no prank, 'tis sheer 
black kobbold malice — " 

“Peace!" The contralto cut sharply across the other 
voices, and she extended her arm. Barber saw that she 
held a slender rod about a foot long, with a point of 
light at its tip. “If there’s sorcery here, we’ll soon have 
it unsorcelled. Azam-mancestu-monejalma — sto!" The 
point of light leaped from the tip of the road, moving 
through the air with a sinuous, flowing motion. It lit 
on the forehead of the antennaed one, where it spread 
across his features till they seemed to glow from within. 
He grunted and turned over, a fatuous smile spreading 



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UNKNOWN WORLDS 



across his face, but did not wake. The tall lady let arm 
and rod fall. 

“Pah!” said she. “Like a stockfish, you put it ? Say 
a stock rather ; here's no enchantment but a booby with 
barely wit enough to live. Oh, I'm well served.” She 
gazed down at Barber, with an expression of scorn on 
her delicately cut features. “And here he's brought this 
great oafish ill-favored creature, beyond doubt the least 
attractive changeling of the current reign.” 

Barber was being scrutinized. “Think you His Radi- 
ance will accept the thing?” inquired one, doubtfully. * 

The tall lady sighed. “We can but try. Mayhap 
'twill find him in his mad humor and so suit. See to the 
object ; we return within an hour.” She swept off into 
a little grove of trees through which the pillars of some 
structure gleamed whitely. 

The one who had spoken last, a winged female about 
four feet high, bent over Barber, examining his pa- 
jamas. “He has arrived without his clout,” she said. 
“Have we one?” 

A square of whitish cloth was passed from hand to 
hand. The four-footer folded it diagonally and tried to 
roll Barber over. 

“Hey!” he protested. “What's the idea?” 

“The changeling speaks,” said one of them in an as- 
tonished tone. “Faith, and well,” replied another ad- 
miringly, “what precocity ! His Radiance will after all 
be pleased.”' And half a dozen of them went off into 
peals of gay, tinkling laughter. Barber could see neither 
rhyme nor reason to it, but he was not granted the 
opportunity, as at the same moment he was seized by 
a dozen pairs of busy hands. They were trying to 
diaper him. The idea was so comic that he could not 
stop laughing enough to resist. 

The four-footer said gravely: “Marry, 'tis no small 
problem With so lusty a babe. A very Wayland or 
Brian of Born when a gets growth, I'll warrant. Yet 
stay, friends ; this is a wise, intelligent brat that talks 
like a lawyer, that is, never but to his own profit. He 
merely protests that we put the clout on over his 
breeches when it should go under. Come, once more !” 

She gave a little leap, flapping her wings in excite- 
ment, and was bounced a dozen yards into the air by the 
effort. Barber gaped, following her with his eyes, and 
felt his pajamas seized by hands eager to tear them off 
him. He clutched, turned, and swung his arms in good, 
angry embarrassment. He broke loose — even the larg- 
est of them did not seem , very strong— and backed 
against one of the trees, a torn pajama leg dangling 
about his feet. Half a dozen of those with wings were 
in the air. He could hear the whisper of their flight be-, 
hind the tree, and a chilly hand, small like a child's, 
plucked from behind at the neck of his too-light upper 
garment, 

“Listen!” he cried. “Unless this is one of those 
nightmares where you go down Fifth Avenue without 
your clothes, my name’s Fred Barber, and I'll keep my 
pants, please. You can trust me hot to disgrace them. 
Now, will somebody tell me what this is all about, and 
why you want to put that thing on me ?” 



He pointed to the enormous diaper, which had .slipped 
from the hand of its holder and lay spread and tousled 
on the grass. There was a momentary silence, through 
which one or two of the' aerial creatures planed lightly 
to the ground, spilling the air from their wings like 
pigeons. 

The brownie with the wall eyes had stepped for- 
ward and was bowing to the ground. “Worshipful 
babe,” he said, in a high, squeaky voice, “you do speak 
in terms rank reasonable ; which, since all reason is folly 
and I am the court's chief fool, to wit, its philosopher, I 
give myself to answer in the same terms. As to your 
first premise, that you dream, why that's in nature a 
thing unknowable; for if it were true, the dream itself 
would furnish the only evidence by which it could be 
judged. You will agree, worshipful babe, that it's not 
good law, nor sense, neither, that one should be at once 
judge, jury, prosecutor and condemned in his own case. 
Therefore — ” 

He was. thrust aside in niidspeech by the little winged 
creature, who cried : “Oh, la ! Never speak reasonably 
to a philosopher, Master Barber ; it leads to much words 
and little wit. What this learned dunce would say in an 
hour or two is that you find yourself at the court of 
King Oberon— ” 

“As mortals have before,” chorused half a dozen of 
them, singing the words like a refrain. 

“ — About to be made a present of to His Radiance — ” 

“Do you mean this is really Fairyland?” Barber's 
voice was incredulous. There was a great burst of 
laughter , from the queer little people all around him,, 
some holding their sides, some slapping knees, others 
rolling on the ground with mirth till they bumped into 
each other. Inconsequentially, they turned the move- 
ment into a series of acrobatic somersaults and games 
of leapfrog, laughing all the while. 

“Where thought you else?” demanded the winged 
lady. ‘ ' 

“I didn't. But look here — I'm not sure that I want 
to be a present to King Oberon, like a . . . like a — ” 
His mind fumbled for the impressive* simile, all the time 
busy with the thought that, in spite of its sequence and 
vividness, this must be some special kind of hallucina- 
tion. “Like an object,” he finished lamely. 

She held, up two little hands with jewels flashing on 
the fingers. 

“Oh, la, Sir Babe, you to question the desire of a 
crowned king ? Why, put it if you must that it's a thing 
natural, like being born or having two legs. You have 
no election in the matter. Nay, more — no mortal ever 
but gained by doing the king's will of fairyland.” 

Once more Barber experienced the operation of that 
curious sixth sense. There was something definitely 
untrue about that last statement. But this was his 
game ; this was the kind of verbal fencing he had been 
trained in, and if this whole crazy business were an illu- 
sion, so much the better ; he could argue himself out 
of it. 

“No doubt,” he said evenly, “I shall benefit. But 



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why pick on me? Certainly there must be dozens of 
people willing to be — pet poodles for King Oberon. 
You say it's a natural thing. Well, after all, nature has 
law, and Fd like to know under what one I was kid- 
naped. And I’m not a babe.” 

Once more. there was the paroxysm of laughter from 
the crowd, and the ensuing antics. The winged lady 
looked bewildered and seemed about to burst into tears. 
But the brownie philosopher struggled from the grip 
of a dwarf who had been holding a hand over his mouth, 
and stepped forward, bowing. 

“Nay, Lady Violanta,” he said. “By your leave I’ll 
speak, for I perceive by my arts that this is a most 
sapient babe, so well versed in precepts logical that heTl 
crush your feather spirit like a bull a butterfly. Let me 
but have him; I’ll play matador to his manners.” He 
bowed, addressing himself to Barber, 

“Masterful babe, in all you say, you are wrong but 
once ; that is, at every point and all simultaneous, like 
fly-blown carrion. Item: you do protest your age, 
which is a thing comparative, and with relation to your 
present company, you’re but a bud, an unhatched em- 
bryo. Hence, we dispose of your fundamental premise, 
that you have years and wisdom to criticize the way the 
world is made to wag; which is an enterprise for sound, 
mature philosophical judgment. 

“Item: ’tis evident advantage to everyone, man or 
moppet, when the world wags smooth. Indeed, what- 
ever tranquillity exists in individual doings is but show 
and false seeming, like the bark on a rotten apple tree, 
till those matters that concern the general be at rest. 
Now, since there lies a coil between our king and queen 
that can only be dispersed by the presentation of a 
changeling from Her Resplendency to His Radiance, 
the said changeling should take great heart and good 
cheer at having introduced into the world some portion 
of harmony that cannot but reflect or exhibit itself in 
what concerns him more nearly. Now — ” 

“Yes, but—” 

“I crave your. grace.” He bowed. “Item the third: 
it is good natural law and justice, too, that you should 
be chosen. For by old established custom it is demanded 
of those mortals who have commerce with us that they 
offer the geld or get of a bowl of milk on St. John's 
Eve. Now, since your parents failed of this duty, wor- 
shipful babe, when snoring Sneckett yonder came, he 
was clearly possessed of the right of leaving an imp or 
changeling in your room.” 

“Marry,” broke in the winged fairy, “and that's not 
all he was possessed of, to bring such a great, ugly 
hulking creature !” 

Scholastic logic, Barber told himself; if this whole 
queer business were hallucination, this part just might 
be something his mind had dredged out of the subcon- 
scious memory left by college days. There was no use 
arguing with the old fellow ; he'd crawl through a key- 
hole. 

“You needn't rub it in,” said Barber. “I know I’m 
no beauty. But I am hungry.” 



. The winged fairy said: “That's a malady we can 
mend. Who has the bottle?” 

A milk bottle with a rubber nipple appeared, and 
was passed to Barber. He examined it at arm’s length 
for a moment, grinned, pulled off the nipple, and 
emptied it in a few large gulps. It was milk; he could 
taste it. Hooray. He felt better. The fairies were 
murmuring astonishment. 

“Thanks,” he said, “but I’m still hungry. How 
about some real food?” 

The fairy looked severe. “Sugar-tits have we none. 
Is't possible you're schooled to sturdier meat?” 

“I'll say I am. I'm schooled to bacon and eggs and 
coffee for breakfast. How about it?” 

“Coffee ? Oh, fraudulent Sneckett ! He told us that 
the folk of your land drank tea.” 

“They do. I’m just peculiar — lots of ways. I prefer 
coffee.” Barber ground the words a trifle, the sugges- 
tion of tea for breakfast capping his annoyance over the 
constant references to his babyhood. In the service, 
where one obtained a senior consulship only through 
white hair and the ability to compare digestive disorders 
with other old sots, he had been known as “Young” 
Barber. 

Violanta shrugged and spoke into the crowd. A 
gangling sprite with pointed, hairy ears shuffled up with 
a tray which contained nothing- but a quantity of rose 
petals. 

“What the devil!” exclaimed Barber. 

“Your eggs and coffee, sweet babe — or since it’s a 
mortal child, would I say Snookums?” 

“Not if you value your health, you wouldn't. And 
this stuff may look like food to you, but to me it’s just 
posies. I might go for it if I were a rabbit.” 

“Stretch forth your hand.” 

He did so ; the rose petals turned into a substantial 
breakfast complete with silver in a recognizable Com- 
munity pattern. He picked up the coffee cup, sniffed, 
and peered at it suspiciously. It seemed all right. He 
squatted on the ground with the tray on his lap and 
tasted, The result made him gag; it was exactly the 
rose-flavored coffee served in Hindu restaurants, and a 
thrill of fear shot through him as he realized- this was 
the perfect pattern of hallucination, the appearance of 
one thing and the actuality of another. 

Violanta caught his expression of dismay. “Your 
pardon, gracious and most dear Barber-babe,” she said, 
“if the flavor wants perfection. A knavish shaping has 
turned our spells to nought, and all here have lived on 
flower leaves since,” 

“Not very nourishing, I’d say,” remarked Barber, 
sniffing hungrily and remembering that dreadful York- 
shire supper he had toyed with in what now seemed a 
past a thousand years deep. 

“Oh, as to that, fear nothing. ‘Twill nourish you 
featly, though it have the taste of adder’s venom.” 

It might just as well, thought Barber, munching away 
and trying to forget the heavy, sweet flavor that went 
with the meal. At least the texture was real enough, in- 



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UNKNOWN WORLDS 



dubitably that of bacon and eggs. He finished and laid 
knife and fork on the tray with a little clink just as the 
crowned woman came sweeping through the grove again. 
Barber laid aside' the tray and stood up, making the 
courtliest bow he could manage with a torn pajama leg 
dangling around one ankle. 

“May I offer my respects to Her Most Resplendent 
Majesty, Queen Titania?” he said in his best diplomatic 
manner. “And offer her my services to the small extent 
of my powers ?” 

She looked so pleased that her expression became a 
positive simper. “So young and so well-taught!” she 
said. “I perceive my Violanta has not wasted time. 
Why, aye; since your offer is fairly made it will be as 
gladly accepted, and you shall be my messenger of. amity 
before His Radiance. Would that delight you?” 

Barber bowed again; . “I can’t think of anything I’d 
like better.” He might as well, he told himself, play out 
the string; behave as though this whole crazy business 
were real and as much a part of his life as, say, the 
Luftwaffe bombing London. 

“Then let’s away,” said the queen. “My coach!” 

A wide-mouthed imp, dressed in a blue tabard with 
an intricate design of silver crescents woven onto it, 
dropped from the tree branch where he had been sitting 
and shouted in a voice of surprising volume: “Ho! 
The queen’s coach!” * 

Somewhere among the trees another voice took up 
the cry, then another and another off into the distance, 
“The queen’s coach! The queen’s coach !” The coach 
rolled into the glade before the last shout died away, a 
structure like that used ceremonially by the Lord Mayor 
of London, if anything more elaborate, more gilded, and 
drawn by six white horses. 

Two footmen leaped down from the tail ; Barber noted 
with a jar of surprise that they were enormous frogs, in 
appearance and costume duplicates of those Tenniel had 
drawn for “Alice in Wonderland.” He was diplomat 
enough not to allow this to upset him, but stepped for- 
ward, and handed Queen Titania in. She smiled gra- 
ciously, and opened her mouth to speak, but just at that 
moment the outrider beside the frog-coachman lifted a 
trumpet and blew a series of piercing notes. The queen 
motioned - Barber to join her. He hopped in. The 
horses started, and they moved off, surrounded by run- 
ning, flying and shouting fairies. Barber’s last glimpse 
of the glade showed him the brownie philosopher doing 
a startling series of Catharine wheels behind the vehicle. 

III. 

The grove was a mere screen of trees; once through 
it they were in an enormous landscaped park where tall 
blossoms on stalks grew in mathematical precision, inter- 
spersed with elms and maples set out in oversize flower- 
pots. There was no road, but the frog-coachman seemed 
to know where he was going, and they rolled along easily. 
They came to a stop with, another trumpet flourish and 
the appearance of the frog-footmen at the door. Barber 
handed the queen down. 



Behind a row of the flowerpot trees a factory chimney 
jutted into the air with a yellow-and-blue flag hanging 
limply from a mast at its peak. “Well met,” said the 
queen, “his majesty’s in residence at the palace. Come, 
babe.” And she started toward it. 

The grass between was set with a maze of fountains, 
playing high with moon rainbows through their spray. 
From one of them a voice suddenly chanted, basso pro- 
jundo: “Rocked in the cra-a-dul of the de-ee-ee-eep !” 
Bombing is notoriously bad for the nerves. Barber 
jumped and caromed into Queen Titania; both sat 
down. The water of the fountain heaved itself up into 
van anthropomorphous shape, like a translucent snow- 
man, and stared at him from lidless eyes. , 

“Blow me down, here’s a sniveling mortal!” it 
boomed. “And rouncing round the queen! You bag 
of tripes, I’ll better your behavior !” A transparent arm 
shot out, the fingers clutching for Barber’s face. He 
ducked, threw up a hand to ward the grip, and bumped 
the queen again as water splashed all over him. The 
rest of the aqueous monster subsided into a plain foun- 
tain, with a Neptunian bellow: “Ho-ho-ho! Did you 
see it jump? Haw-haw-haw!” - 

“Haw-haw-haw !” came an echoing burst of laughter 
from the other fountains, as the one that had splashed 
Barber burst into deep-voiced song : 

“Fifteen men on a dead man's chest, 

Yo , ho, ho and a bottle of rum! 

Drink atid the devil had done for the rest — " 

All the fountains were coming in on the second “Yo, 
ho, ho — ” as Barber scrambled up and offered Queen 
Titania his hand. She disdained it and leaped to her 
feet, her good nature gone. 

“You day-headed oaf, you clumsy tallow ketch !” she 
blazed in a quietly deadly voice. “Were’t not that you 
are a mere object, a toy for a better man, I’d have you 
to the strappado!' I’ll — ” 

Barber bowed. “A thousand pardons, Your Re- 
splendency! I was only trying — ” 

She advanced furiously, cocking a fist. “Trying ! I’ll 
try you, and in a star-chamber fashion !” 

Barber backed, then looked around to make sure he 
had sea room, for the living fountains were shouting and 
singing all around behind him. As he did so his eye 
caught a figure — a small, thin-haired man in doublet 
and hose, with a sandy mustache and a six-inch dia- 
mond hanging from a chain around his neck. Titania 
saw him at the same time as Barber; she lowered her 
arm as the man hurried up. 

“How now?” he said. “Why, it’s my sweet cowslip, 
my pretty helpmate, and with her feathers ruffled like a 
mourning dove ! What — ” 

“Spare your sarcasms, my lord,” snapped the queen. 
“Here’s your changeling, and good riddance. Now do 
I get my little Gosh ?” 

King Oberon looked at Barber. “This great wool- 
sack jobbernowl a changeling ?” 

“Aye, and I give you joy of him. Just now the light- 
some ox strewed my royal dignity upon the path.” 



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15 



“Ha, ha! Would I had seen it. If you dislike him 
so, the colt must have better points than show in his 
teeth/' 

“Why, you starveling stick — " Titania suddenly 
seemed to recollect that she had come not to quarrel, but 
to get something she wanted by exchange. Her face 
underwent a lightning transformation. “In very faith, > 
it's not so useless a wretch; can argue, stretch a point 
like a philosopher. Will you, not take it, give me my 
Gosh and set our affairs once more to their wonted 
smoothness? My lord knows full well there has been 
another shaping." 

The king rubbed his chin. “Full well, indeed. I cast 
a spell for a hunting lodge and get these cursed, crank 
living fountains. I'm still not won to your thought that 
the variance between, us lies at the root of these shap- 
ings. But 'tis most evident they are thereby increased 
in effect, like a pox with exercise, since we can receive 
in our affairs only what we put forth. So, since you 
wish it, madam, let there be peace between us." 

The fairies, who had been crowding around, went into 
shouts of delight over this announcement, and began the 
same series of antics Barber had seen them perform 
before. Titania's smile, though gracious, was a trifle 
glassy. 

“And my little Gosh?" she asked. 

Oberon swallowed, then lifted his voice and shouted: 
“Gosh !" There was no answer. He tried again. Still 
no response. “Herald!" he called. 

A sprite, the twin of the one who had called the 
queen’s coach save that his tabard bore a design of suns, 
somersaulted into position, opened his mouth and 
shouted : “Chandra Holkar Raghunath Tippu Vijayana- 
gar Rao Jaswant Rashtrakuta Lallabhbhai Gosh ! Come 
forth, you misbegotten imp, you villainous standing- 
tuck, you — " 

“Here, sir," said a dark-skinned boy of about twelve, 
appearing suddenly. “Did you call, O Pearl of Wis- 
dom?" 

“Call? Aye, and for the last time. Take the brat, 
then, my lady, and let me call myself well shut of him." 

Chandra Holkar Raghunath Tippu Vijayanagar Rao 
Jaswant Rashtrakuta Lallabhibhai Gosh stood grinning 
unregenerately, with his feet apart and two small thumbs 
hooked into his sash. He bowed to Titania. “Am I 
truly to be yours again, O Star of Beauty and Queen of 
Felicity?" 

“Aye," said Titania. “Come, my babe. Let's to our 
chambers." 

The boy winked at Barber. Oberon's mouth sud- 
denly fell open. “It's not to be done," said he. 

“And wherefore not?" 

“There's a matter — they are not fit — " Barber ex- 
perienced for the third time, and stronger than ever, 
the sixth sense that told him the man was lying. But 
Oberon rushed on : “That is, I did prepare your apart- 
ment against your coming and it is but now all be- 
tousled and lumbered with new decoration. Since you 
left my bed — " 




“It stayed cold not long, I'll warrant," said Titania, 
her foot beginning to tap dangerously. 

Oberon's fists clenched, and the diamond danced on. 
his chest. '“Fie! Fall! By bold Beelzebub’s brazen — 
look you, who are you to talk, wench, with a changeling 
in your train whose beard sprouts and fists ar 6 like foot- 
balls ! Call me kobbold if he's not good for more games 
than ring-around-a-rosy." Before Titania could retort, 
he swung suddenly on Barber. “Sirrah ! : How long 
have you known my wife? Quick and true or turn 1 to a 
frog !" 

“If you mean how long since I met the lady," said 
Barber, his sixth sense warning him that there was 
something phony about this outburst, “maybe an hour. 
If you mean — " 

“Enough ; let be. Your reply's ample." 

“But not yours to me," said Titania. “Come, Gosh, 
we'll see what 'tis my lord is so desirous to conceal." 
She swept regally toward the factory chimney, followed 
by the boy. 

Oberon muttered after her: “Wish her joy of her 
conquest. He's found a taste for felonious magic — oh, 
a perfect 'accomplished young cutpurse — Yet, now 
what's to do?" He looked wildly from side to side, 
then seized Barber’s arm. “Your name, fellow!" 

“Barber." * . 



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‘‘Marry, a most proper one to the emergency, since 
here’s a great bloated business to be bled docile. Art 
trustworthy?” He poked his face close, then went on 
rapidly : “No matter ; it’s a case of trust and be damned, 
or doomed for lack of trust. Harkee, fellow Barber: 
there be two entrances to my lady’s apartment, by the 
staircase and through our royal rooms. Do you take 
the nearer while we move with her ladyship by the 
longer route. Will find a wench there ... ha, ha, ’tis a 
babe of parts'; I see you take my meaning. Well, spirit 
her away ; exorcise her, by any means. . Come !” 

Still gripping Barber’s arm, the king went across the 
grass after Titania in a series of bounds, dragging the' 
other with him. They were together at the entrance to 
the chimney, which proved to have surprising interior 
dimensions and a helical staircase that went up and up. 
“Pox take these villain shapings!” panted Oberon, as 
they climbed, “that will not let us mount by the old 
Fairyland method of a word and aloft. Ouf!” 

He came to a halt on a landing opposite a brown, 
iron-bound door, and, as the other two continued out of 
sight, yanked out a key and pressed it into Barber’s 
hand. “So, and nimbly,” he whispered, then bounded 
up the stairs after the queen. \ 

There seemed no lock or even latch on the door. 
Wondering why he had been given the key, Barber 
pushed. He found himself in a kind of sitting room 
with tapestry-covered benches along the walls wherever 
they were not cut by archways. Each of the latter led 
to another room on a different level, some up, some 
down. He raced from door to door, seeing nothing 
promising till he reached one that gave on a room in 
which an elaborate gold-and-damask four-poster bed 
was visible, with another door beyond. That ought to 
be it. 

The key? But this door was as innocent of keyholes 
as that on the stairway. Perhaps it was bolted on the 
other side. He knocked. The wood emitted a dull 
sound, indicative of solidity, but there \yas no answer. 
Using the metal key to make the noise louder he knocked 
again. Instantly the door swung open. He.. found him- 
self. looking across a wide apartment at an extremely . 
pretty girl in a thin dress, seated before a mirror and 
winding .something starry * into her hair. She had wings. 

At the sound of Barber’s entry she turned a startled 
face in his direction. “The queen !” he said. “Oberon 
says for you to clear out.” 

The girl’s mouth fell open. There was the sound of 
another door somewhere, accompanied by Titania’s pen- 
etrating voice. 

The girl leaped from her. stool and dashed to a closet. - 
In a matter of seconds she was out with an armful of 
silky garments and a wad of fancy shoes in one hand. 
She scooted past Barber as he held the door for her, 'He 
pulled it to behind them., 

“Lock, quickly !” she said. “You have the key?” 

Barber gazed uncomprehendingly from the lockless 
door to the instrument he still held clutched in his hand. 

“Ah, stupid !” she cried. She snatched it from his 



hand, passed it through the loop-shaped handle, mutter- 
ing something meanwhile, and turned to examine him 
from top to toe. “A changeling babe, I’ll warrant,” she 
said finally, “else you had not been so ignorant of 
means. Even shapings alter not these.” 

Barber felt a surge of irritation over these continual 
references to his babyhood. “I suppose you could call 
me a changeling,” he replied, a trifle coldly, “but I’m not 
a baby — by any means. Permit me to present myself. I 
am Fred Barber, of — ” He took a step backward to 
bow as he made the formal introduction. As he did so 
the pit of his knee touched the edge of a chair and he 
went down into it, with no damage but loss of dignity. 

An expression of surprise flashed over her face, and 
she gave a tittering laugh. “Oh, la, Sir Changeling,” 
she said, “to take advantage of a poor girl so ! No babe, 
indeed, but a very Don Cupid. Well” — she put her 
head on one side and surveyed him brightly, like a bird 
— “I’ve played pat-lips with less lovely lords, so let’s 
on.” 

“Huh?” 

The girl dropped her armful of clothes, took two quick 
steps, and was on Barber’s lap, with both arms round 
his neck. “ ’Ware my wings,” she said. Her hair had 
a faint perfume. 

“Hey!” said Barber, though not at all displeased by 
the sensation. “What have I done to deserve this?” 

Her eyes widened. “Is’t possible you are so ignorant, 
sweet simpleton? Yet, I forget — you are a stranger; 
Why, then, you took a single chair, not a bench nor the 
floor, nor offered me a place to sit, and we’re alone. In 
the exact custom of our realm, that is to say you wish 
to play lob-lolly — oh, shame ! And I thought you meant 
it !” Her face flushed. 

There was a knock at theJnner door. 

“That’s Oberon,” said Barber. “I really did mean it, 
but—” f 

“Ho, Barber!” came the king’s voice, muffled by the 
door. 

' “Alack for might-have-been,” said the girl, and kissed 
him. 

“Ha, Barber fellow! Open!” came from the door. 

The girl slid to her feet, gathered her gowns and 
slippers with a single motion, danced over to the win- 
dow, and leaped lightly to the sill. Barber jumped up, 
but before he could reach the window she was gone, her 
gauzy wings glittering on the downbeat in the. moon- 
light. He returned to the door and tapped it with the 
key. It opened to reveal Oberon talking amicably with 
Titania and Gosh. “So, a good day, then my love,” said 
the king, “and good-hap.” 

He bowed, came through and closed the door after 
him, then .clapped Barber on the back. “Well, and 
wisely done, fellow! .You have our royal favor. But, 
hist, take an older man’s advice — if you must make 
merry with our Fairyland doxies, choose one without 
wings.” 

“Why?” asked Barber, wondering how much Oberon 



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knew about the incident in the chair, and how he could 
know, 

“Take thought, man. Merely imagine.” 

“Oh.” < , . 

“Now then, to the next matter — your garb. It's not 
fit for the court. Stand here before me.” 

Oberon made a series of rapid passes with his hands, 
reciting: 

“One, two, three, four, 

Doublet and hose, such as Huon bore ; 

Yksi, koksi, kolme, nelja, 

Clothe him here in cut engraily; 

Ichi,. ni, san. shi, 

Garb him then, as he should be — ” 

Fred Barber felt a soft impact. He looked down,, 
and to his horror found himself covered with a complete 
suit of tree frogs — hundreds of them, clinging in a con- 
tinuous layer by their sucker-toed feet. He yelped and 
jumped. All the tree frogs jumped, too, cascading over 
the floor, the furniture, and the frenzied king, who was 
bouncing with rage. 

“Ten thousand devils !” he shrieked. “Pox, murrain, 
plague, disaster upon this stinking puke-stocking shap- 
ing! ni_” 

Barber recovered first, bowing amid the leaping 
batrachians. His diplomatic training made him remem- 
ber that distraction was the first step in curing a fury 
like this. “I beg your majesty's pardon for making so 
much trouble. But if I may trouble you still further, 
would you explain to me what this shaping is? If I 
am to serve your majesty, it seems I ought to know 
about it.” 

Oberon's rage came to a halt in midflight. He rubbed 
his chin. “The curse of our domain, and insult to our 
sovereignty, lad. If with your mortal wit you can do 
aught to alter them, all favor's yours to the half of the 
kingdom. Look you . . ; you come from a land where 
natural law is immutable as the course of the planets. 
But in our misfortunate realm there's nought fixed ; the 
very rules of life change at times, altogether, without 
warning and in no certain period — Oh, fear nothing; 
we'll have the royal tailor in to — ” . 

“And these changes are called shapings?” 

“Aye ; you have hit it. There's an old prophecy gives 
us to hope, somewhat about a hero with a red beard, 
whose coming will change the laws of these laws, but 
I'm grown rank skeptic in the matter.^ There is this 
also, that with each shaping, things grow faintly worse, 
by no more than a mustard seed, Dyou understand? 
Yon fairies in the queen’s train, when once they began 
playing, hopped happily all night. Now they grow tired, 
need a new stimulus, which accounts for my lady's 
humor, who likes joy about her. And there's my great 
jewel, that before the last shaping had the property of — 
Why, where's the bauble?” 

Oberon looked down at the starry front of his doublet. 

“ 'Tis gone — I know, ’twas that small brown fiend, the 
Hindu cutpurse. I've been robbed! I — the king — 
robbed in my own royal palace !” Oberon hopped 
around the room like one of the tree frogs. “Devils 



burn him! Scorpions sting him! Lightning fry him! 
The sanguine little cheat, the stinking blackguard !” 

Barber gave up and put his fingers in his ears. When 
the torrent had died down a trifle, he removed them 
and asked, “Why doesn't your majesty tan his hide? 
Sounds as though he needed discipline.” 

“Discipline him? Titania dotes on him in extremis , 
and he's her ward. I can do nothing, though he intends 
murder most foul, without oversetting what little law 
remains in this plagued land. Ah, faugh! Never wear 
a crown, Barber fellow ; 'tis light enough on the brow, 
but on mind and heart heavy.” He. yawned. “To bed ; 
get you gone, the third arch by the left if the room's still 
there after this last foul shaping. An elf will attend 
you.” 

Barber left the king unlacing his shoes and singing 
away to himself quite cheerfully: 

“But when I came, alas! to wive , 

. With hey, ho, the wind and the rain; 

By swaggering could I never thrive, 

For the rain it raineth every day" 

The room was still there, but with neither glass nor 
curtains to the windows, and the level lines of a morning 
sun streaming across the floor. Apparently the noc- 
turnal fairies went to sleep as naturally in a glare of 
sunlight as mortals did in darkness. Barber wondered 
if he could do the same. He thought maybe he could, 
having been up all night, and turned back the covers of 
the enormous silk-covered bed that nearly filled the 
room. As he lay down it occurred to him that there 
was something particularly undreamlike in falling asleep 
in a dream ; and that going calmly to sleep was hardly 
in tune with any form of insanity. This gave him a fine 
sense of satisfaction in the actuality of the experience till 
he remembered that Oberon had described the experi- 
ence itself as utterly lawless. Still trying to unravel the 
logical difficulties this involved, he drifted off. 

IV. 

He was awakened by a gentle clearing of the throat. 
The sound went on and on, as diminutive as a mouse's 
alarm clock. Barber ignored it till he found he would 
have to turn over anyway, then opened his eyes. 

A small, wizened elf with a leather bag in one hand 
stood by his bed. “Gweed-morrow, young sir,” said 
this manikin. “I'll be the tailor royal. His Radiance 
bade me attend ye.”’ 

Barber slid out of bed, his toes searching futilely for 
slippers that were not there. The elf whipped out a 
tape measure with markings spaced unevenly as though 
an inch were' sometimes one length, sometimes another. 

“Hm-m-m,” said the tailor. “Ye’re an unco great 
stirk of a mortal. But I’ll fit ye; 111 jacket ye and 
breek ye and cap ye.” He began pulling clothes from 
the bag — underwear and a shirt and a pair of trunks, 
that bulged around the hips. All went well till Barber 
began trying on jackets with pinched waists and leg-of- 
mutton sleeves. His squarish, straight-lined torso had 



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no median joint to speak of. The elf grunted, “Too 
muckle wame,” thrust the largest of the jackets back 
into the bag, muttered something, and took it out again. 

This time the waist was all right, but Barber com- 
plained : “It’s still tight across the back of the shoul- 
ders/' 

The elf helped him take the jacket off and felt of his 
shoulder blades. Barber was conscious that the probing 
fingers touched a little point of no-sensation, like an 
incipient boil, on each scapula. The tailor whistled. 
“Heuch! Ye'll be having a. rare pair o' wings afore 
ye're mickle older. I maun make ye a wingity coat.” 

“Whatr 

*’ The elf was speaking “ — wear that ane until I get 
your wingity jacket made. Noo the collar.” The tailor 
pulled from the bag a starched ruff that was probably 
ten inches in diameter, though it looked thirty. 

“Is that a collar, or do Lwear it around my middle?” 
demanded Barber. 

The wrinkled face, remained solemn. “A collar. It 
buttons tae your sark. It's a coort regulation.” 

“Oh, well,” said Barber, “I’ve taken off my shoes for 
the Son of Heaven, worn white tie and tails at noon for 
the President of the Third Republic, and put on silk 
knee britches for the King of Spain. I guess, I can 
stand it.” The tailor put the ruff on him, standing on 
tiptoe to button it. “How the devil do you eat in one 
of these things ?” 

“Tip your head weel froward, and 'ware the gravy.” 
Barber turned to the tailor. “What’s your name?” 
“Angus, sir.” 

“How old are you, Angus ?” If he could keep talk- 
ing, plunge himself deeply enough in the objective 
world, however irrational that objective world might 
at the moment seem, the real, rational world in which 
he was actually living must break through to the level of 
consciousness. 

“Twelve hundred and fifty, sir.” 

Once more, stronger than ever, Barber had the sen- 
sation of being in the presence of a lie. He grinned : 
“How old are you, really, Angus ?” * 

The respectful look became- a grimace of uneasiness. 
“Weel, your young lairdship mustna gie me awa,~but 

I’ll be fifteen hundred and ninety-ane years auld, come 

» '■ 

“That's all right. You don't look a day over a thou- 
sand.” The small victory gave Barber a comforting- 
sense of superiority. “Suppose you tell me something 
about this country. What are we bounded by ?” 

“Fat’s that?” v 

“What’s north of here?- Ditto with east, south and 
west.” 

“That depends on which way north is, sir. Maist 
times, ’tis straight up. The last time ’twere doon, ’twas 
in the direction of the Kobold Hills.” 

. “And what are the Kobold Hills?” , 

Angus shifted his feet and tucked the mirror into his 
jerkin, . where it disappeared without leaving a bulge. 
“The hills where. the kobolds be,” he said. 



“Who are the kobolds?” Fairies of some sort, he 
remembered from youth, but the word might have a 
special meaning. 

“I dinna really ken, sir.” His eyes avoided; the 
falsehood was so obvious that the elf himself felt it. “If 
your clothes are satisfactory, sir. I’ll tak my leave.” 
Without waiting for more he whisked out of the room. 

Barber called after him : “How about a razor — ” but 
too late. A fingertip assured him of the- stubble on his 
chin, but none of the furniture contained anything that 
was the least use in such an emergency, so he shrugged 
and went into the entry hall to look for the king. 

The archway to the royal rooms showed nothing, 
but from another came the sound of voices and Barber 
rightly guessed this must be the breakfast room. It was 
long and high-ceilinged, with huge, arched glassless 
windows — didn’t it ever rain or get cold here, he won- 
dered? — and the astonishing bright moonlight of fairyr 
land streaming in. But the center of his eye was taken 
up by the table and its occupants. 

It was twenty feet or more long, covered with a 
damask cloth that dripped to the floor, and from the far 
end Titania faced him, regal and smiling. Behind her 
stood Gosh and the brownie philosopher; uniformed 
footmen bustled. At the other end, with his back to 
Barber, sat Oberon, also with two attendants. The king 
had just finished eating something; one of the footmen 
whisked a gold plate from under his nose, and four tall 
goblins with spindling legs and huge puffed cheeks, 
standing stiffly midway down the table, lifted silver 
trumpets and blew. Their music was like that which 
Barber had heard from the gallery at the coronation of 
George VI. 

Titania had seen him and indicated, his direction 
through the music with a wave of her hand. Oberon 
turned. “Ho, it’s the Barber ‘fellow !” he cried. “Ha, 
slugabed ! Approach, approach.” 

Another dish had appeared before him. He trans- 
ferred part of the contents to a plate and handed it to a 
footman. “To Barber, with our royal compliments,” he 
said. Instantly one of the trumpeters blew a blast like 
an elaborated version of an army mess/Call. 

Barber looked around for a chair. There were none 
in the room except those occupied by the king and 
queen, so he supposed he would have to eat standing 
up. The food was pale-blue in color and strongly fla- 
vored with violet ; Barber, who had never been able to 
get used to the English habit of sweets with breakfast, 
found it perfectly abominable. Fortunately he was 
spared the worst effects of the king’s generosity, for no 
sooner had he taken a couple of mouthfuls than Oberon 
was beckoning him to the table. 

“Harkee, Barber—” 

Whatever else he was going to say was drowned in 
another outburst from the goblin trumpeters. Titania 
had changed plates. Oberon’s face writhed, he brought 
his fist down on the table, but the queen was quicker in. 
catching the precise moment when the tooting stopped. 



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THE LAND OF UNREASON 



"My very dear lord and gossip,” her bell-like voice 
rang out, "you do forget your guest. A wight that 
casts his shadow wants nourishing.” She handed a 
plate to one of her footmen. "Our royal compliments 
to Master Barber, and may he prefer this to the . last 
dish.” He did ; it tasted like steak. 

Oberon slapped his forehead with an open palm. 
"Oh, apologies, Barber ; we crave your grace. Now on 
the matter of this achievement ; it’s the kobolds.” 
"What about them ?” asked Barber, munching away. 
"We fear they're making swords again to ruinously 
vex our realm. The beat of forging hammers comes 
from their hills, and has a droll ring to it, as though 
they were not working good honest bronze but — iron.” 
He let the last word drop slowly; as he did so the 
footmen started and one of them dropped a plate. 

"I still don't see — ” 

"Why, halt 'em, thwart ’em, confound their knavery! 
You're mortal; plainly you can handle the stuff.” 

The brownie philosopher at the other end of the table 
was bowing like a jack-in-the-box. Titania said : "You< 
have our permission. For two minutes only, though.” 
"Gracious lord, gracious lady,” he piped. " 'Tis clear 
to my arts that this changeling stands before you un- 
comprehending, like a bull in a buttery. What’s to do, 
a asks, and Your Radiance but gives him commands, 
when it's a sapient babe that will see to the heart of the 
millstone.” 

He bowed to Barber and squeaked on : "These ko- 
bolds are a race that consort not with us, loving labor 
like Egyptians. Which I take it to be — ” 

"Ahem!” said Oberon loudly. 

The brownie philosopher bowed three times, hur- 
riedly. "Now the minds of these kobold cattle are so 
fashioned that since they alone, of all Fairyland, have 
the power of touching iron, they make of fashioning that 
metal an inordinate vainglory, preferring it to all others 
that—” 

Titania silently held up two fingers. 

"Yes, gracious lady — And would therefore forge 
swords at every opportunity. Which swords, being 
distributed, do set all Fairyland at the most horrid strife 
and variance, with bloodletting and frequent resultant 
shapings — ” 

Bang! Oberon's fist came down. "A truce to bab- 
ble ! Here's the riddle ; we of pure fairy blood cannot 
go to the Kobold Hills, which stink of the curst metal. 
Thus you're our emissary.” 

Barber’s ear had caught the slight accent on the word 
"pure.” "Because I'm of impure' fairy blood, I sup- 
pose?” he questioned lightly. 

"Wherefore else, good Barber?”* 

He laughed, but it died out against the unaltered faces 
around him. "Who was your mother’s mother, sir?” 
asked Titania's clear contralto. 

"I — don't know.” He had always assumed he had 
two grandmothers, like everyone else. They came in 
pairs. But looking up family trees had always struck 
him as a sport that led either to the D. A, R. or the 



booby-hatch, places he was equally anxious to avoid. 
Oberon pressed against his confusion. 

"There are brooks also since the last shaping — 
plagued ungainly obstacles to us of the pure blood, who 
must seek around by their sources or fly high above s , but 
not for you, mortal. Go, then, we say ; be our embassy, 
our spy.” 

"And if I do, can I get back to where I came from? 
After all, I have work — ” 

"Why, you unhatched egg, you chick-cuckoo, will you 
bargain against the King's Radiance of Fairyland ? Go 
to! I'll—” 

The brownie philosopher was wriggling in a passion 
of desire for speech, but Titania signed him to speak. 
Oberon, catching sight of the motion, pulled himself up 
short. 

The brownie philosopher exhaled a long breath at 
being allowed to speak. 

"Ha! Your Radiance, Your Resplendency!” He 
bowed rapidly toward one end of the table and then the 
other. " 'Ware this changeling lad, I say. I have 
hunted his aptitude to its lair as he thought on't but 
now. He’ll set your court by the ears, for he can tell 
lies from truth whenever spoken.” 

Oberon leaned back in his chair and unexpectedly 
burst into laughter. All the footmen, butlers and goblin 
trumpeters obediently imitated him. One of the latter 
laughed a series of bubbling toots into his instrument, 
and got Barber himself to laughing. Only Titania and 
Gosh kept their composure. He noticed that the lat- 
ter was making a rapid series of passes with his hands 
and moving his lips. The mound of blue on Oberon's 
plate vanished ; the boy chewed and swallowed. 

"Ho — ho, 'tis rare, rank rare,” gasped Oberon, com- 
ing out of his laughing fit by degrees. "Well, my pretty 
cosset, how think you now on your bargain? You have 
your little felon, ha, ha, but I've gained me a counselor 
that shall make you both jig a step or two. Tell me, 
good Barber, what is your profession?” 

"I was in the diplomatic service.” 

"There 'tis; those who gain a faculty by commerce 
with us get generally one that would be most useful 
whence they came. Though meseems 'twould have 
been nearer the eye to have the power of making your 
own lies believed.” 

Titania smiled, only half ruefully. "Then all’s well, 
my lord, if Imponens has but justly judged. It's a sharp 
archer indeed that never misses the heart.” 

Oberon had picked up his fork as she spoke, and now 
his eye fell on the empty plate before him. "We'll put 
it to the proof,” he said, and pointed at Gosh. "You 
imp! Did you beguile my breakfast but now? Mark 
his answer, good Barber.” 

The dark little face took on an expression of bland 
impudence. "Oh, Gem of Glory,” he began, but Titania 
came to his rescue : 

"My noble lord, do we not but bandy while our sov- 
ereign purpose waits? Here's this Barber, an approved 



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ambassador, whom we are anxious to speed, yet we sit 
jousting in wind like a pair of sguittards — Gosh ! My, 
magic wand ; I left it in the apartment." Our messenger 
shall bear it.” 

The boy strolled toward one of the doors with his 



'“That,” said the queen, “is something you must learn 
by experience; no other" teacher.” 

“Aye,” added Oberon, “and mark well, Barter ; what- 
ever happens, use no physical force against the kobolds.” 
“Why not?” 




nose in the air and an expression of nonchalance. As 
he passed the king, Oberon growled : “Beat it hence, 
you bepuked little mandrake!”, but it was covered from 
Titania's attention by Barber's own remark: 

“How am I supposed to use this wand?” 



“You’re outnumbered, one to a thousand. Yet, there's 
a better reason, however high your heart run; these 
wights are of such nature that they be held under cer- 
tain bonds against passing to open violence. But if it be 
first used on them, they are released and can reply in 



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21 



overweening measure. No striking then; sheer skill.” 
“But,” cried Barber, “you want me to stop them 
from making- swords, but I can't use force. You won't 
tell me what to do or how to use even the wand.” 

“You named yourself diplomat, not we. Sure, you’re 
a poor stick in the profession an' you have not met such 
tasks before — Ha, here's the wand.” 

He took it from Gosh and handed it to Barber. It 
did not look in the least as it had when Titania used it 
on Sneckett the evening before, but like an ivory walk- 
ing stick. The handle end came round in a crook with 
a carved snake’s head terminal. 

“Watch it well,” warned Titania. “This wand has an 
enchantment in it ; if it be lost, all concerned, including 
your sweet self, will come on some misadventured pite- 
ous overthrow. Go then, and good luck with you.” 

V. 

The park, with its fantastic potted trees and eight- 
foot blossoms, stretched farther from the tower than 
Barber had imagined. Nobody there had been able to 
give him any sensible directions to the Kobold Hills. 
“Take the path and ask as you go,” they had said. 
“The wand will help you.” 

What path ? Ask whom as you go ? 

Yet at this point it looked as though he would have to 
ask somebody soon. The path, narrowed to an alley by 
parallel hedges, flowed into an opening filled with a 
round bed of the huge flowers. • Beyond hedges closed 
in again, smoothly green, joining the flowerbed at its 
back, so that he must definitely choose between turning 
right or left. The grass gave no clue; both directions 
showed the high color that had hitherto been his guide. 
Everything was still as the moon itself, flooding the 
scene with cold light, not a sound, not a motion, not a 
sign of breeze. 

“Hey!” said Fred Barber. 

No answer. Not an echo, either ; the foliage muffled 
his shout. 

The indifference of this landscape had become nerve- 
wracking. He addressed a zinnia the size of a cabbage 
on a stalk towering over his head : /T wish you could 
tell me which way to the Kobold Hills,” he said aloud. 

The blossom showed no intention of doing so. Damn 
this whole business! Unfair. His mind vaulted back 
to the incident at college when somebody had blown 
sneeze powder through the old-fashioned hot air inlet 
into the room where the faculty dinner was being held. 
Very funny, but not for Fred Barber, who was student 
president, and knew that the priceless young fool who 
did it would get the whole college confined to campus 
in Junior Week if he didn't own up. He pointed the 
ivory wand accusingly at the zinnia: 

“Confound it, can’t you see you're just making it 
tough for all of us without helping yourself? Which of 
these paths goes to the Kobold Hills?” 

The zinnia courteously bowed its head toward the 
path on the right. Barber gazed at the other flowers in 
the bed ; there was still no wind, not a leaf had rustled. 



not another flower head changed. He pointed the stick 
at a bachelor's-button the size of a ten-gallon hat : “Do 
you agree ?” he demanded. 

The huge flower returned his stare immobile and im- 
passive. Experimental proof was wanting. 

His shoulder blades itched in unscratchable places. 
He stopped and reached around with the crook of the 
walking stick-wand, and could plainly feel the bumps 
that Angus had informed him were incipient wings. 
Fred Barber with wings. He tried to picture to himself 
the commotion at the embassy if he walked in on them 
with a pair of great feathered appendages springing 
from his shoulders. He could imagine old Houghton 
babbling at the sight, with his smug face of a satisfied 
sheep. And would an authentic winged man have prece- 
dence at dinner over a military attache? If he knew his 
embassies, the question ought to be good for at least 
eight hours of argument. 

Well, he was out of that now, perhaps permanently, 
and just ahead of him the hedges were falling away to 
side and side from another crotch in the road. Between 
the two forks were flowers, mingled with a perfect for- 
est of the potted trees, and in front of them a man, or at 
least an individual, was standing on his head. The 
head was a large one, and the individual seemed per- 
fectly comfortable, with arms and legs folded. At the 
sound of Barber's footfall he opened a large green eye. 

“Beg pardon,” said Barber, “but could you direct me 
to the Kobold Hills?” 

The individual said : “What do you want to go there 
for?” 

“Public business,” said Barber, trying to make it 
sound important. 

The individual yawned — it looked extremely odd in 
his position — and opened a second eye. “Not an origi- 
nal remark, my friend. You're the-^let’s see — forty- 
ninth mortal to go through here. They’re always on 
public business. Forty-nine is seven times nine. I 
wouldn't go any farther.” t 

' “You're arithmetic’s wrong, and whether I go or not 
is my business. How do I get there?” 

The. individual opened a third eye in the middle of his 
forehead. “No it isn't. It's only mortal affection for 
exact systems that makes you say that. I know all 
about Oberon's monkey-business with the kobolds. It’s 
a waste of time. And you're mistaken about those col- 
ors. They call them green-grocers because they feel 
blue.” 

Barber had a sensation of trying to wade through 
mud, but clung manfully to the main issue. “Why is it 
a waste of time to do anything about the kobolds? 
They'll make trouble if they're not stopped, won't they?” 

The individual closed two of his eyes. “Lots of trou- 
ble,” he said cheerfully. “They'll lay the country waste. 
Your development is incomplete. You can't follow 
more than one line of reasoning at a time. That makes 
for errors.” 

“Then what's the objection to thwarting them ?” 

“It’s an inevitable transition stage before we can have 



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anything better. If your development were complete 
you'd see that the kobolds were destined to sweep away 
the old corrupt order/' 

“ What's corrupt about it ?" 

“So that's your line, is it? Very well; do you admit 
that perfection exists ?" 

“We-ell," said Barber doubtfully, “there’s a word for 
it, so I suppose that in a sense — " 

“Either a thing exists or it doesn’t. If it exists in a 
sense it exists in all senses. Just as you're made not less 
a man by being- an outsize, humpbacked mortal man," 
“Go on/' said Barber, 

“Now if it exists it is patently worth striving for, 
isn't it?" 

“I'll concede that for the moment." 

“Fine. Now I'm sure you’ll admit that Oberon is not 
perfect. He quarrels with his wife and keeps winged 
fairies in the bedroom while she’s away/' 

“I suppose you could hardly call that perfection/' 
“Aha! Then since perfection is worth striving for, 
Oberon, being imperfect, is not worth striving for. He 
is corrupt and should be swept away. Q. E. D." 

“But will the~ kobolds produce perfection?" 

“Far more of it than Oberon. They outnumber him, 
a thousand to one, d'you see ? ^ Even if the unit quantity 
of perfection per individual were far lower, the total 
mass would work out higher," 

“Listen," said Barber, in some exasperation* “I’d like 
to stand here and split hairs with you all night, but I’ve 
got a job to do. Which way to the Kabold Hills?" 
“Then you admit I’m right?" 

“I’ll admit anything if I can be on my way." 

“Then," said the inverted person calmly, “by admit- 
ting I'm right you. admit implicitly that you are wrong, 
Therefore you don’t want to go to the Kobold Hills." 
“All the same, I’m going. Which way?" v 

The remaining eye closed wearily and the voice sank 
to a mumble. “Either one you like . . . or . . . perhaps 
both. Yes; I think — you’d better take — both." 

Barber turned away and trudged resolutely down the 
left-hand fork, reflecting that he had taken the right at 
the last choice. Since there seemed no rules of sequence 
in this experience, he would probably come out nearest 
correct by doing exactly the opposite of what had been 
successful before. The way seemed clear enough in this 
direction, though beyond Three-eyes and his fork, the 
hedges closed in from, both sides again and it wound 
around in the familiar involutions. Barber followed it 
around a sweeping curve, up a slope — and found himself- 
approaching a fork whose center was occupied by a 
flowerbed with- trees: behind. In front of the flowers an 
individual, was standing on his head. ' „ 

“I told you it was no use," he remarked' as Barber 
came up to him. “You don’t really want to go to the 
Kobold Hills." j 

“Oh, yes, I do. I took the wrong fork last time, no 
thanks to you, but I'm going to take the other one this 
time." Barber stepped resolutely to the right. 

Two of the green eyes came open. “Just a minute. 
It's only fair to warn you, my friend, that if you turn 



to the right, you'll come back here just the same. The 
way’s longer and more fatiguing, though. Better go to 
the left again; you’ll get here quicker." 

Barber ignored him and strode resolutely down the 
right-hand path. After a little distance, however, he 
was obliged to admit that Three-eyes had been right 
about one thing. The path here was certainly more 
fatiguing. It climbed sharply. His foot struck an out- 
crop of rock. He looked down ; instead of the lawnlike 
carpet on which he had been walking, the path underfoot 
was now nearly bare, except for rank tufts of yellowish 
vegetation, and ahead the rocks were more frequent. 
The hedges had, changed character here, too. They 
were much taller, at least twenty feet, and had come in 
close to pinch the path to a mere passage. The turns, 
too, were no longer rounded curves but angles; and as 
Barber negotiated one of them, something caught and 
scraped across the back of his hand, leaving a scratch 
that showed little drops of blood. The hedges here had 
thorns. 

He climbed. At. a little summit the hedge on one side 
broke back to reveal a sandy depression. In the middle 
of it, a few yards from the path, was another 'native, 
with a long, horsy face, elaborately rigged out in some 
.sort of tweedy material with a red silk sash sweeping 
diagonally down across his chest. He had a crooked 
stick in both hands and was violently banging it into 
the sand, throwing up little spurts with each stroke. 

“Hello," said Barber. 

The native glanced up, revealing a monocle on his 
face, swung the stick over his shoulder and brought it 
down again — swish-thump! “Thirty-four, sixty-two," 
said the native as a grain of sand landed in Barber’s 
eye. 

“Sorry," said the native curtly, shifted his feet, and 
drove the stick down again, so the next explosion of 
sand went off in another direction. “Thirty-five, sixty- 
seven," he remarked to himself. 

Barber extracted the grain of sand, and asked: “Beg 
pardon, but can you tell me the way to the Kobold 
Hills?"* 

Swish-thump ! “Thirty-three, sixty-one." 

Barber raised his voice : “Hey, can you tell me- — " 

The monocled face swung round like a gun turret. 
“My good mortal, I’m not deaf." 

“Then why don’t you answer ?" 

“Can’t" 

“Oh, you mean you don’t know." 

“Certainly I know. But I can’t tell you." 

“Why not?"* 

“Because I don't know you. We haven’t been intro- 
duced. You might be some blighter." 

Barber hovered between laughter arid annoyance and 
compromised 04 a snort, “Look here," he said,, “Fm 
on State business." He shook the wand. “Here’s my 
credentials. Now suppose you — ’’ 

“No‘ use, old thing. Awfully sorry and all. that. 
Nothing personal." 

“But it’s important— " . 



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“Oh, undoubtedly; I quite understand. Safety of 
the realm and all that.” He elevated one hand and 
pointed the index finger at his forehead. “Ah, I have it ! 
! You find old Jib; lives down the road a bit. Literary 
chap, so it doesn’t matter who he meets. He can make 
the introductions.” He showed Barber a tweedy shoul- 
der and swung again. “Forty-one, fifty-eight.” 

The hedge-lined track plunged down sharply, angled, 
angled again, changed character to the original type of 
hedge-and -grass within a couple of hundred yards, and 
Barber found himself back at the fork in the roads, with 
the inverted sophist regarding him out of one green eye. 

“You’re beginning to develop. Now that you per- 
ceive the compelling logic of the situation, why not take 
the next step?” he said. “Give up this trip and align 
yourself with the forces of progress. A little tempo- 
rary violence is necessary to achieve any great improve- 
ment.” 

Barber gripped the ivory wand and advanced grimly 
on Three-eyes. “Look here,” he said, “I’m going to the 
Kobold Hills and if you don’t tell me how to get there, 
there’s going to be a little temporary violence right 
now.” 

The individual raised all three eyebrows — or, rather, 
lowered them, being upside down. “Are you threat- 
ening me, mortal ?” 

“You’re damn right, I’m threatening you !” 

“Evidently you will accomplish nothing against the 
kobolds.” 

“Why not?” 

“The complaint is the manufacture and use of instru- 
ments of force, is it not ? It’s the one which that hide- 
bound old nympholept Oberon usually makes.” 

“Yes,” admitted Barber, drawn back into the argu- 
ment in spite of himself. 

“To prevent them,” said Three-eyes triumphantly, “it 
is necessary for you to use an instrument of force on 
me. You thus adopt the methods of the kobolds. In 
the higher sense, which looks beyond externals, you are 
a kobold. Therefore, you cannot thwart them, because 
you would be thwarting yourself in the process. Q. E. D. 
OUCH!” 

Barber had jabbed at him with the point of the wand, * 
but before it made contact with the comfortable belly, 
that instrument gave off a long streak of blue fire. It 
touched Three-eyes and ran all over him, leaving him 
shining with a phosphorescent light. The mouth flew 
open and the creature gasped : 

“All right, I’ll tell you. Take that thing away. I’m 
an elemental force. , You can’t get away from me till you 
propose a problem for which I can’t find a logical solu- 
tion — But I don’t think you can do that,” he added 
as Barber lowered the wand. “Mortals lack a sense of 
process.” A smile of self-satisfaction spread across the 
inverted countenance. “Don’t try Achilles and the tor- 
toise on me; I know that one.” 

Barber fingered his chin in puzzlement, considering 
the question. There was no reaction from his newly 
developed instinct for lies; presumably this singular 



creature was perfectly right when he said he would have 
to be outargued. Yet how to do that? His fingers re- 
vealed a pronounced stubble of beard, far more than he 
should have grown in two nights and a day. It cer- 
tainly needed the attention of either a barber or a 
Barber with a razor, which reminded him of being 
called, ad nauseam, “The Barber of Seville.” 

Three-eyes, who had shut all of them, opened one. 
“I thought so,” he remarked. “Better give it up.” 

Barber of Seville! That was it — Bertrand Russell’s 
paradox of the Spanish barber. 

“By no means,” he said, “Listen: suppose there’s a 
village in Spain which nobody enters or leaves. In this 
village there is one barber, male and clean-shaven. If 
this barber shaves everybody in the village who does not 
shave himself ; if he does not shave anybody in the vil- 
lage who does shave himself : who shaves the barber ?” 

“I should have mentioned that mortals who try to 
stick me and fail generally turn into parasites of some 
kind,” said the creature. “Want to withdraw the ques- 
tion ?” 

“I’ll take my chances,” said Barber, gripping the 
wand firmly. It ought to be some protection. 

“All right then.” The eyes closed. “Let’s see — if 
he does shave himself — by Hecate, then he doesn’t — and 
if he doesn’t, he does — ” 

Barber turned, shaken with inward amusement. 
As he did so, the now-declining moon threw a new 
shadow along the hedge at the right. There was a nar- 
row gap in it that he had not noticed before, and the 
brighter green of the grass in that direction showed a 
path led through it. He turned into it, but he had not 
followed it for more than twenty steps before a vivid 
blue flash from the crossroads paled the moonglow. 
Boom! The shock of an explosion almost took him off 
his feet. 

When his eyes recovered from the glare, he walked 
quickly back to the gap in the hedge. Three-eyes had 
vanished. 

Barber turned back, and saw he was going down a 
. gentle slope toward a structure like a large metal hat- 
box. It had low windows all round, and a faint pur- 
ring, as of machinery, came from within. In front of 
it, a bald and burly brown elf squatted on the grass. 
His left hand held open the pages of a book. An intri- 
cate system of flying trusses composed of small branches 
had been rigged to one of the potted trees just beside 
him to hold a cage containing half a dozen fireflies. 
Presumably they were to furnish light for his reading, 
but the solid bottom to the cage prevented them from 
being altogether a success. The elf did not appear to 
mind. His lips were moving rapidly as he followed the 
text, and with his other hand he was busily writing 
something on several sheets of paper, without noticing 
that his pen had run dry and was leaving no marks 
whatever. 

“Pardon me,” said Barber. “Is your name Jib by 
any chance?” 

“Yes, yes,” said the elf. “What can I do for you? 



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Quick, now ; Fm writing down my thoughts about this 
book, I believe it will be my most important work.” 
"Oh, Fm sorry to interrupt you. - Do you know the 
way to the Kobold Hills?” ^ 

"No, no, not now. I used to, but I haven’t kept up 
with athletics recently.. I have so much to do in direct- 
ing the currents of intellectual opinion. You really . 
must read my commentary on this^book. It’s about the 
theory of inverse value.” 

"Would you mind stepping along to introduce me to a 
fellow with a red sash who doesn’t talk to strangers ?” 
"Yes, yes, surely. Very glad to. The author’s theory 
is sound, but he makes several slight mistakes in arriv- 
ing at the rationale of inverse values, with the result that 
he reaches the correct result by the wrong route. My 
commentary will clarify the whole matter.” 

• "What whole matter ?” 

"Why, the theory of inverse values,” said the elf, 
tucking the volume under his arm and joining Barber in 
the path. 

"We can prove that nothing has any value.” 

"Huh?” 

"Certainly. Look here: Obviously two oranges are 
worth twice as much as one orange.” 

"I suppose so.” 

"And one is worth half as much as. two. That is, 
value is proportionate to quantity.” 

There seemed nothing to do but humor this helpful 
but argumentative sprite. "I see,” said Barber. 

"But as quantity approaches infinity, value becomes 
inverted. A thousand cubic feet of air- has no value. 
The amount of air is, practically speaking, -infinite. But 
if the amount of oranges in Fairyland were infinite? 
Suppose that, I say, suppose it.” 

"I am supposing it. What then ?” 

"Well, an orange is a fruit. You add to the amount 
of oranges • in existence that of lemons, pomegranates, 
quinces, apples, et cetera, all the fruits that have a sup- 
positious value. The result is a total practically in- 
finite, as in the case of air. Therefore, all these fruits 
taken together must have an inverse value, or none at 
all, as in the case of air. And if the total sum has no 
value, the individual fractions — single oranges, for in- 
stance — have no value likewise. The last part is my 
commentary.” . 

"Beg pardon,” said Barber, "but isn’t there a flaw in 
your reasoning — ” 

"Not at all, not at all, my dear fellow; Mechanically 
perfect. Cured my orbulina. Here’s Cyril now.” They 
had climbed out of the declivity, and Barber saw the 
same fairy, whacking away and muttering, "Forty-four, 
eighteen.” Evidently they were on the- opposite side of 
his clearing than Barber had approached before; he 
could see the tall thorn hedges beyond. 

"What’s your name?” demanded Jib. "Barber? I 
say, Cyril! I want you to meet my old friend Barber.” 
“Right-ho,” said the tweedy native, with energetic 
cordiality. "Delighted.; charmed. How can. I help 
you?” 

Barber repeated the now-wearisome question. 



, "Oh,, surely,” said Cyril, "Only too glad. Keep right, 
along this path, but — let’s see, this is Monday, what? 
Then you have to take the' left fork at the first turning. 
Carry right on till you reach the forest. You’ll have to' 
ask your way after you get into it, I’m afraid. The 
shapings do things to the forest pathS. Look here, do 
you want me to accompany you ?” • 

"It might be helpful, but aren’t you busy?” 

"Well, rather. I’m just on the edge of setting a new 
record. But for a friend of old Jib’s — ” 

"Oh, I wouldn’t think of bothering you, then. What 
do you mean by the forest?” 

"There are forests and forests. This is the forest. 
Cheerio, then.” 

He shook hands, and turned to thumping at the sand 
again. Jib squatted down with his book on his knees, 
and began to go through the motions of writing, oblivi- 
ous of the fact that he had left both the inkless pen and 
his paper behind. ' 

VI. 

The path took a slight downward slope, and the 
hedges opened out to reveal a new and monotonous suc- 
cession of flowerbeds. 

There were long shadows across the path that hinted 
of a setting moon. Barber was reminded that he had 
been walking all -night without food.' When Oberon’s 
royal chamberlain had handed him one of the ever-filled 
food bags carried by Fairyland travelers, it was with the 
warning that he had better use it before sunrise. A 
single shaft of sunlight striking the thing was apt to 
cause a kind of minor shaping. 

He brushed the crumbs from his lap and stood up. 
The shadows had lengthened and run together as he ate, 
the moon was a cookie with a piece bitten out, at the 
very edge of the horizon. There was still no sign of the 
sun that had driven away the previous night’s moon; 
perhaps even the ephemerides of Fairyland did not run 
on schedule. In the weakened light the path was harder 
to trace. He strained forward to follow it — and was 
swallowed in a dark as intense as though he had sud- 
denly gone blind. Better, rest up. He trotted over to 
the nearest hedge, felt his way under its spread on the 
cushiony grass. 

.When he woke it was to find the sun already low, the 
moon up and challenging it. A few minutes brought 
him to a fork which must be the one Cyril had men- 
tioned. Go left, he had said, since the day was Monday ; 
a piece of reasoning which struck Barber as so charac- 
teristic of the place that he stood for a moment wonder- 
ing whether it was still Monday and if not, which was 
the right direction. Finally deciding Cyril_ would have 
made allowance for the lapse in time, he took the left 
fork. The way led down and around a long 'curve; 
climbed a steepish rise, and brought him out on the crest 
of a low hill, with a broad meadow between him and a 
dark wall of midnight green — - the forest, so denomi- 
nated. The sun was down behind it. 

Fred Barber, took a long breath and marched reso- 
lutely across the meadow into the encroaching gloom 



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under the branches. He could feel the gentle strain at 
the back of his jacket where the little bulges that must 
really be wings pulled against it, and there seemed to 
be a new set of muscles developing at his chest. 

The forest was one of large trees, old as time, with 
neither grass nor underbrush around their trunks. It 
would be like the tame parked forests of Germany, 
Barber thought, but for the bulging of knots and scars, 

: which in the tricky moonlight gave almost every tree 
some semblance of a human face. A scowling eye 
greeted him from the gloom ahead, a mournfully droop- 
ing mouth followed him there. 

Overhead spots of sky were scattered beyond the 
leaves, but walking was not too difficult on the even leaf 
mold. Barber peered here and there for denizens of the 
place to guide him. There were none, no more sound 
nor motion about than there had been in the park be- 
yond Oberon’s palace. The place was in a kind of 
silent green golden age as though the trees themselves 
had absorbed all the personality of the landscape. He 
struggled with the thought that they might similarly 
absorb him, turning his body into one of those rugose 
pillars, his members into branches — It was as credible 
as anything else in this land of unreason. 

He was trying to follow a straight line by sighting 
on trees before and behind him, but could not be sure 
against following a wide circle. 

■i Something moved. 

In his familiar old world it would be an animal and 
perhaps dangerous. Still, Titania’s wand ought to de- 
fend him against wu-wugs, whether predacious or fawn- 
ing. He was acquiring respect for that ivory stick since 
the incident of the cloudless rain. He took a long, leap- 
ing step forward. The figure moved again, and now he 
was sure of its humanity. 

“Hey!” he called. 

The figure stopped ; an old woman, leaning on a stick 
gripped in skinny hands, her long nose and chin curving 
toward each other like those of a caricature. Only these 
were visible under a floppy hat, and her head was bent 
to stare at the ground. 

Barber bowed. "Beg pardon, ma’am, but could you 
tell me the way to the Kobold Hills ?” 

The head did not lift. “ ’Tis bad loock to sleep near 
an apple tree. And beware o’ t’ ploom,” said a voice 
that was so like Mrs. Gurton’s as to make him start. 

“Thank you,” he said, “but can you tell me how to 
get to — ” 

“ ’Tis bad loock to sleep near t’ apple. And watch 
aht foor t’ ploom.” . She showed him a shoulder and 
toddled off among the dark trunks. 

Barber hesitated. If she didn’t want to tell him, he 
had no means of compulsion, unless the wand— But 
at least she was going somewhere, not round and round 
as he feared he himself was. He whirled and started 
after, but she had moved with surprising speed, and was 
now no more than a flicker of motion far down the 
glades, held for a moment in a moonbeam, then gone 
completely. 



No use. He groped his way back to the space where 
he had met the hag — or thought perhaps he had found 
it. Surely that oak whose boles had twisted themselves 
into the face of a villainous bishop was one he had seen 
before. Damn ! The thought occurred to Barber that if he 
acted on Fairyland precedent, he would probably be per- 
forming his mission by helping Jib write a commentary. 
It caused him to smile till a twig snapped somewhere in 
the moon-blue gloom and fear ran up and down his 
spine on little cold feet. 

Something there, moving with him, parallel. No, it 
was not just the twig, he told himself, realizing that the 
small sound had been closer than the presence he sus- 
pected. The snap had called his attention to that pres- 
ence, roused him from his own unawareness. It was 
there. Perhaps imagination? No, an almost imper- 
ceptible rustling, moving when he moved, stopping with 
him. No — imagination ; nothing could synchronize its 
movements so exquisitely to his own. No, not imagina- 
tion; that co-ordination could be achieved in this mad 
Fairyland where the physical laws in which he had 
been brought up didn’t hold water. 

“ — didn’t hold water,” he caught himself saying the 
words aloud. This would never do; he was letting it 
get him. Ahead there was a little cleared space, with 
moonbeams slanting down across it. He raced for it, 
reached the edge, and stood gasping for his equilibrium ; 
then jumped a foot, as a figure moved at the far side. 
It was clad in flowing garments and took a step toward 
him. He clutched the wand in both hands, as if it were 
a bat. 

“Why, you’re frightened !” trilled a soprano voice that 
ended in two notes of a laugh. “Don’t fear me, mortal. 

I heard you in the forest, far away, and came to help 
you. Are you lost?” 

Barber’s muscles relaxed and he let the stick down as 
she came toward him, her face shadowed by a chaplet 
of leaves. “Yes, I am,” he confessed. “I’m trying to 
get to the Kobold Hills. Perhaps you can help me find 
the way ?” 

Again the lilt of laughter. “But surely! Ah, none 
without the pure fairy blood can find their way without 
help through the forest. Come.” 

She had reached his side and take? his hand in her 
own, small and cool. The fear-feet were dancing on his 
spine still, but light as thistledown ; there was something 
thrilling and pleasant in the frank contact of her hand 1 , 
she led the way under the dark trees so straight and^ 
sure. He half stumbled across a root and came against 
her with shoulder and hip. 

“Sorry,” said Barber. 

Her head turned and in the dark he thought she was 
smiling at him. “It’s all right— how could you know 
the footways as I do? You’re very strong.” 

“I never thought so,” said Barber, practically, and 
then as this seemed an ungracious response to an ob- 
vious conversational lead, added : “It’s awfully good of 
you to — take charge of me like this.” 

“Not so. We of the forest are often lonely. To feel 



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26 

the pressure of a friendly hand is — sweet.” ' Her fingers 
gripped his tighter for a part of a second. 

She must have a cat's eyes for dark places, she was 
hurrying him along so fast. .He wanted to go on talking 
to her, explore further this mysterious and rather at- 
tractive personage, about whom hung a faint sweet per- 
fume of — what was it? At least, he assured himself 
with a sudden return to a diplomat's normal caution, he 
wanted to get her into a light bright enough to make 
sure she didn't have buck teeth or piano legs. 

His guide suddenly swung him around a big tree with 
a crack-the-whip effect and stood facing him. 

“Oh,” she said, “here is the very door of my place. 
Will you not stay and rest for a few moments ?” And, 
as Barber groped for a formula of reluctance that would 
allow him to change his mind and accept with the least 
urging, she added : “If not for your own sake, at least 
for mine. .. I'm suddenly so tired.” 

An alarm bell rang in his head. That was a lie. She 
was not in the least tired. But Fred Barber was utterly 
lost now in this immense wood, and if she were lying to 
him, it was also likely that she had. taken him far from 
his direction. He could only string along and find out. 

■'-Why, I don't know—” he. said, “I really must be 
making progress- — ” * 

“Ah, I understand.” Her head lowered and she let 
his hand fall. “It’s but a poor woods thing, and you 
used to great courts—” The fluting voice trailed off 
with an accent at the edge of tears. * 

“Oh, no ; I was just going to say that I must be mak- 
ing progress, blit I've already made about enough- for 
tonight, so I can stop for a few minutes.” * 

_She took his hand again and led for half a dozen 
steps. A deeper black that would be a bank loomed out 
of the dimness ahead ; his guide stooped and pulled aside 
a curtain of leaves. Warm fingers of yellow .light 
reached from a short tunnel at whose far end Barber 
could see a room. He ducked through the door and 
followed her. At’ the far end “she turned, laughing, and 
took both his hands in hers'. 

Neither buck teeth nor piano legs, but a good, if 
somewhat well-developed figure, clad in a sheer dress 
splotched batik-wise in red, yellow, green, with a mas- 
sive jeweled belt clasped around the waist. A blond 
head, cheeks cosmetic-red, though he could swear not 
from cosmetics,, and eyes of a pronounced and startling 
green. . Nice features, full lips ; Barber smiled approval. 

Her eyes widened in response, a little smile played ^ 
across her lips as she drew his hands around till they 
met at her back. Her fingers slid up his arms till they 
reached his shoulders, where they clung with a tingling 
pressure and her head tipped back. “We in jthe wood 
are so lonely — so lonely,” she sighed into his lips after 
the first contact. “Oh — you're strong. I didn't know a 
mortal could be so strong.” Her eyelids fluttered against 
his throat ; the perfume of her hair was intoxicating. 

Was there something a trifle too rapid in this- ap- . 



proach? The girl sighed and pulled his head down to 
meet her lips again. 

Fred Barber said: “I really ought to know your 
name.” • r 

“I have no name, my love.” 

The alarm bell rang again, loud and clear, this time. 
She was lying. But v why? And what did it matter, 
with this fascinating vision pirouetting slowly between 
him and the light. Barber remembered that there had ^ 
been occasions when he threw a shoe at the alarm clock. 
Unfortunately, he also' remembered there were usually 
consequences when he did it, and briefly cursed a tem- 
perament that could not take the moment without, 
question. She slid into his arms again. J 

“No, really, what do people call you?” 

“You may call me Malacea. Ah, love — ” 

Another bell jangled with a different timbre, far back 
in memory. The name ought to mean something, but he 
could not think what.. He talked desperately between 
long kisses. “How do you live? I mean, do you stay 
here always.” 

“You will see. You’ll stay with me — We can be 
so happy, we two alone.” 

She's lying . 

“Are you all by yourself-?” 

“Until you came.” That's a lie . “But now we'll be 
together — forever.” That's another. She tilted her 
head back. Again it came between him and the light, 
a curious light that flowed without visible source from a 
little bowl of bark. Barber noted with* a nervous shock 
that his hostess was ever so slightly transparent. There 
was something wrong — very wrong. He pulled away 
suddenly and sat down on the bed, which was of moss 
and let him sink into it. Think fast, Barber [ 

“Listen, sweetheart,” he said, reaching for her hand . 
and holding it tight, “let's do this right. They warned 
me that all sorts of terrible things would happen to me if 
I didn't hurry up this mission I'm on, and I believe 
them. Can't you come with me as far as the Kobold 
Hills ? It won't take long, and then we can both come 
back here. I like your woods.”" 

Her eyes twitched. Little lines appeared around her 
mouth, making her expression not half so attractive.^ 
“Oh, stay,” she said, with a throaty sob in her voice. 
But Barber noted that the fingers of her other hand, 
resting against the wooden door pillar, were tap-tapping 
an irregular telegraphic beat, and her head cocked as 
though to hear an expected sound. 

“How can I? You wouldn’t want me to— turn into a 
frog in your arms.” 

Tap-tap — and then, a duller sound, something, ap- 
proaching the cave with slow, heavy tread. 

Malacea wrenched her hand free, snatched up Bar- 
ber's wand, and raced down the tunnel.. 

He sprang to his feet and after, plunging through the 
leaf curtain with a rustle. For a moment he hung there, 
utterly blinded by the change from lighted room to tree 
shadow where only a few drops of moonlight filtered 
through. Out of that dark came the girl’s voice: 



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"No — no. Please! You have the wand — that's all 
you need — ooh!” 

The girl, just visible ahead of him, stumbled and fell 
as though strongly pushed. Between them moved a 
shadow, whose opposite side was outlined by a shaft of 
moon to the likeness of a leafless branch, shaped like a 
huge, gnarled hand. It was coming toward him. 

Barber dilcked, dodged behind a tree, and looked up. 
Above him towered a figure, human in form but with a 
barklike surface, twice his own size, semitransparent 
where it got between him and the moon. It's eyes held 
a dead fire of hate and cruelty, and the scraggy arms 
were reaching for him. 

He turned and ran as he had never run in his life, 
dodging like a deer among the moon-splotched trunks. 
A root tripped him ; he took 
three sprawling steps, re- 
covered and went on ; al- 
most lost his footing over a 
small depression. Behind 
him, getting no nearer but 
certainly not receding, he 
heard the swish and crackle 
of the ogre's pursuit. 

He slipped around one 
tree and was caught across 
the head by a low-hung 
branch, hard enough to 
bring a blinding flash across 
his vision. He kept on, feel- 
ing rather than seeing his 
way till sight cleared. 

Another staggering trip 
must have cost him yards of 
the small lead he held over 
the monster, and a trick of 
position threw the shadow 
of that clttiching hand 
across a broad slash of 
moonlight before him. He 
could feel the wing stumps 
quiver with instinct on his 

back; useless — and his second wind was going. 

Racing on, he risked a sidelong glance. One of the 
huge hands was almost abreast, its fingers spread. Be- 
fore him the forest suddenly opened into brilliant light 
and there was a stream, with flashing rapids right and 
left. A dark pool loomed before. Fred Barber put his 
last ounce of strength into a soaring broad jump' 

He lost a shoe at the water's edge and fell forward. 
In a last burst of vitality, he heaved himself to a knee 
and groped for something with which to defend himself. 

The ogre towered from the other bank, looking down 
with those lidless eyes, its mouth working. The flood- 
ing moonlight on the thing cast only the thinnest of 
shadows through its shapeless carcass. For a few ticks 
of the watch, man and spook stared at each other 
across the rippling water. One of Barber's hands found 
the stone he sought. 



The ogre turned and moved off among the trees, 
thump-thump on the leaf mold. Barber could have 
thrown the stone, but if His Transparency wanted to 
call the matter quits, Fred Barber was certainly in no 
mood to pursue the matter further. It was not till the 
monster had disappeared from sight and sound that he 
remembered Oberon's words — "brooks — plagued un- 
gainly obstacles to us of the pure blood, who must seek 
around by their sources or fly high above." That was 
why the pursuit had been given up. Or perhaps it had 
not. Perhaps the ogre was on his way now to circle 
the stream at its headwaters. 

Barber staggered dizzily forward. His forehead was 
growing an imposing bump and ached dreadfully. 

He had not taken more than a dozen steps when the 
pinwheels before his eyes ran together, and he collapsed 

into a faint. The last 
thing he remembered be- 
fore going out was Mala- 
cca's perfume. It was apple 
blossoms. 

VII. 

His faint must have 
turned into the normal sleep 
that Barber's exhausted 
nerves and muscles craved. 
He came to himself on his 
back, staring straight up. 
The incredible moon was al- 
ready losing some of its 
light to a paling sky. Bar- 
ber felt hungry, sore, and 
abused. The ground, oozy 
damp beneath, had left a 
trail of discomfort along his 
spine, and his head ached 
vilely, but he felt better. 

The fact was, Barber told 
himself, lying there staring 
at the intaglioed surface of 
Earth's sister star, and not 
caring to move lest it make the headache twinges worse 
— the fact was that being hunted through the woods by 
a translucent ogre out of a nightmare was a useful ex- 
perience. It restored one's confidence in the reality of 
objective existence. Also in the ability of the corporeal 
senses to bear true witness of that existence, however 
their testimony might disaccord with preconceived no- 
tions of what it ought to be. 

No, it was real enough, and he did not doubt that if 
the ogre's woody fingers had closed about him they 
would have been real enough, too. So was the pressure 
of Malacea against him as he kissed her, though she was 
semitransparent. Well, the forest hag had warned him 
against the apple— though how could he have known? 

At this point his meditations were interrupted by the 
unmistakable voice of the little snipe, her accent low and 
urgent : 




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.“Let him wake. Oh, let him wake before the dawn/' 

Barber sat up and reached for the ache spot on his 
head. Malacea was facing him across the stream. She 
leaped to her feet: “Oh, my mortal lover !" she cried. 
“Come back ; I know a spell to cure your pain.” 

“Yeah?” said Barber with hostility. “I know how 
you’d do it, too — turn me over to that Dracula boy 
friend of yours and have him fix me up so I wouldn't 
have to worry about pains any more." 

The light, whether of moon or coming day, was 
bright enough to show two big tears coming out on her 
cheek. “Ah, never, I swear it. My heart rose when 
you escaped the clutches of that demon Plum." 

“That demon what?” 

“Plum. I dare not but do as he asks. All the plums 
are hard and evil, but this one worst. His heart has 
dried and he wants a mortal blood transfusion." 

“And you help him get it. Is that the idea?" Barber’s 
voice was implacable. 

“Oh — " Her fingers twisted against each other. 

“How can I make myself clean before you ? How could 
I know that among the mortals that come to this wood 
would be my own dear love ? Oh, come back, and help 
me repent; I’ll make it good to you!" 

Barber, hunting among the long grasses for his 
dropped shoe, cocked an inward ear toward: the alarm 
bell of his instinct for lies. Not a tinkle. She really 
meant it; or perhaps that new sixth sense merely did 
not work on emotional matters. “Thanks," he said, 
“but I'll stay over here out of * reach of your friend. 
What happened to my wand?" 

“.You need not fear him. Listen, I’ll prove my faith 
by giving you his secret. Wait for the sun; when day- 
light's abroad he cannot stir from his tree. You have 
only to eat of his fruit, then he can never harm you 
after. A hundred and fifty paces upstream will bring 
you to where the tree can be seen ; it has a broken top." 

“Unh." Barber, found the shoe and put it on. It was 
wet. “Good. I'll wait till daylight and then try it." 

“But come to me now. Oh, hurry!" She looked up 
at the sky, now/ fully ' rose-colored along the horizon. 
“It's growing daybreak, and I must go back to my own 
tree." • 

“What became of my wand ?" repeated Barber. 

“I don’t know." 

“You're lying." 

She was weeping openly now. Barber, who had seen 
enough both of night club life and diplomacy to develop 
some cynicism about feminine tears, flicked dried mud 
off his clothes without looking at her. Malacea stamped 
her foot : “The plum took it ; where, I do not know. 
So you have my. full confession; won’t you — " 

“No, I won’t," said Barber. It seemed to him that 
his new sense of truth or no-truth was confused. Pos- 
sibly Malacea suspected but did not definitely know 
where the wand was. He found a fallen trunk, tested- 
it for solidity, sat down, and opened the provision bag. 
Everything all right there, so far. Between bites, he. 



said: “If you really want to impress me, you might tell 
me how to get to the Kobold Hills." 

“Go straight on. Beyond the wood, you will reach a 
plain; walk through it for an hour or two, and when 
you see the hills blue on -the horizon, you are near. But 
/there be devils and strange things in that plain; I can 
see, to guide you only so far." 

Barber frowned, but there was no indication of any- 
thing but truth in her words. Watching him narrowly 
from beyond the stream, she suddenly became all gaiety. 

“Oh, you’ll return ; I see it now. I am your fate and 
you mine. We are all, all avatars, though you are.mor- 
tal and I only a tree sprite who can be seen through 
when the light is strong. Farewell then, for a little 
time." - 

<“Good-by." He was beginning to relent a little ; after 
all, she had been decent as far as she knew how. 

. “No, not good-by. We’ll meet again and strangely." 
The tinkling laugh, that had accompanied her first 
words when they met, ran .three notes up a scale and 
two down. “And you, mortal, will live weirdly before 
you lose yourself in finding yourself." 

She took three steps among the crowding trees and 
was hidden, but behind her for a moment there floated 
the words of a song 

i 

“ — fairies turn to men; 

When he touches the three — " 

It was cut off abruptly, and the wood went utterly silent 
as the first level ray of sunlight struck across the rapids 
in the stream. 

Barber, dawdling over the remains of his breakfast, 
reflected that the downright approach of this child of 
nature was perhaps more appropriate to certain phases 
of international relations than to personal ones. There 
was something peculiar about the personal relations of 
Fairyland anyway, now that he came to think of it. The 
winged girl in Oberon’s palace, and now this one, had 
practically thrown themselves at him. He could not 
honestly flatter himself into believing it w'as because of 
any innate attractiveness of his own. 

There were also Jib and Cyril, both busy, who had 
been willing to enough to drop their concerns and help 
him when he asked in the right way. It was as though 
Fairyland psychological reaction worked like a slot ma- 
chine ; you dropped in a penny, and unless it were coun- 
terfeit, got a stick of gum. No, not quite. There 
seemed to be some choice of reaction. He remembered 

i 

Titania catching herself midway in a reply to one of 
Oberon’s taunts, and the latter's abrupt shift to meet 
her mood — Malacca’s lightning change from tears to 
happiness. It was more like _a game of . chess ; • you 
played pawn to king four on the board of personal rela- 
tions, and your opposite number, though not compelled 
to imitate you exactly, had to make one of a series of 
standard moves or find himself compromised. 

If this held true as a general rule — hold the boat, 
Malacea had just offered him a chance to give check to 
the king. Eat some of the dry-hearted plum’s fruit, and 



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then be damned to him. He would need any such pro- 
tections he could get after having lost Titania’s wand, 
for he did not in the least doubt that queenly lady’s word 
about his coming to “misadventured piteous overthrow” 
as a result. Action ! 

The plum tree was there, all right, standing pretty 
much by itself, as though none of the neighboring foliage 
cared to approach the monster. It was a very seedy old 
tree, indeed, with pink blotches of fungus on its strag- 
gling leaves. 

Barber waded the stream and approached it cau- 
tiously, ready to bolt. It took some inspection to reveal 
any fruit at all on it, but he finally located a couple — 
flat, wrinkly things, but plums. There was no sign of 
the wand. He wondered jf the plum were hollow and 
the wand inside. It would be interesting to investigate ; 
for that matter, it would be interesting to chop down the 
tree itself. That ought to settle Mr. Plum-Spook’s 
hash. But he had no ax, not even a knife ; no matches 
to experiment with burning the thing down, and was 
not enough of a boy scout to start a fire by rubbing 
sticks. 

The plums were well out of reach. A cast among the 
other trees gave him a dead branch, but it was not long 
enough. Two or three efforts to cast it javelin-wise 
gave no result. 

Barber dropped the branch, wiped his hands, gripped 
the trunk of the plum and started to climb. The bark 
seemed to crawl beneath his hands — imagination prob- 
ably. About him the malformed leaves rustled and the 
big old trunk heaved ever so slightly, as though in the 
grip of a storm-wind. It creaked till he wondered 
whether it would break beneath him. 

The branch with the fruit was one of the uppermost, 
and when he reached it Barber was driven to the un- 
comfortable expedient of swinging out along it, hand 
after hand, with his toes just balancing him, on a lighter 
branch beneath. Under his weight the upper branch 
curved till he had difficulty keeping his grip. Toward 
the end, he let go with one hand and grabbed. The fruit 
floated irritatingly away from his fingers, but at the 
fourth snatch he made it and tucked the plum in his 
jacket. Another effort gave him a second, and he 
dropped to the ground. 

Close up the plum looked even more unappetizing 
than from a distance, and a tentative nibble assured him 
that it tasted even worse — like a sour dried prune. No 
two ways about it, though ; when you have to — 

Cr-rrack! He looked up just in time to catch a 
glimpse of a. big dead branch, unaccountably broken 
loose from the tree’s morbid top, hurtling down at him. 
He jumped like a grasshopper, and sought the shelter 
of a friendly-looking oak to finish his unpleasant snack. 
As he ate, he noted that the back of his jacket seemed 
tighter. Perhaps the wings were growing; but if so 
they were no use to him yet, so he set out to trudge 
along the banks of the stream. 

The forest was very quiet in the dawn light, almost 
as quiet as the strange park land through which he had 



passed before. He moved on without incident for a 
couple of hours till the trees on the left bank began to 
thin. Among their trunks he could see a line of yellow- 
brown where they stopped altogether. He crossed and 
made toward it. But when he got nearer he perceived 
that what he had taken for the packed earth of a plain 
was in fact a low, brown wall of some kind of adobe. 
It inclosed a large space filled with rank on rank of 
gravestones, all alike in size except one very large one 
which faced a kind of gate a hundred yards from him. 

^ Barber found the sight surprising ; he had always sup- 
posed the inhabitants of Fairyland to be immortal, or 
nearly so. The wall was only knee-high. He hopped 
over it and went to investigate this curious cemetery, in 
which the ground was not humped as it would be over 
real graves. The stones were very old ; all the inscrip- 
tions had been weathered from them except a letter here 
and there. To make matters worse the first two he ex- 
amined had been lettered in Greek. From the next the 
lettering had disappeared entirely; there was only just 
visible the incised outline of a violin and a pair of musi- 
cal notes. The next bore a book open, with the letters 
VERI — a gap, and AS. Then came one that had a 
crude representation of a telescope, another with faded 
armorial bearings, and one with a mortarboard academic 
cap. All had some symbol, and as Barber wandered 
among them, he was struck by the fact that none of these 
symbols were either military or religious in character. 

He made his way toward the larger and more elabo- 
rate stone at the gate. Like the rest, it had been nearly 
effaced ; unlike them it still bore a few traces of lettering 
beneath a coat of arms now nearly wiped out. Peering 
close, Barber was able to make out in the crumbling 
stone : 

When the redbeard conies again 

Then shal . . . urn . . . 

When he lac „ * 

He sh faces. 

The illegibility of it was made still greater by the fact 
that it had originally been carved in an old letter like 
the type face of a German book. Barber puzzled over 
it for a while, but could make nothing of it. Nor did 
there seem to be any other sign of life but a couple of 
lizards sunning themselves on the inclosure wall, so he 
left the graveyard and continued his way. 

Beyond, the trees really were thinning out along the 
left bank of the stream. "Go straight on,” Malacea had 
said, which he took to mean on along the river. It 
divided and flung one brooklike branch back among the 
trees, so he kept to the other. Along this fork the coun- 
try was flat and soon became dismally bare, with the 
trees petering out into gray-green shrubs that had a 
greasy look under the now-high sun. Once or twice 
Barber caught a glimpse of something moving on the 
horizon, but too far and indistinctly for any details to 
be made out. The stream dropped away from him, 
down to the bottom of a stony arroyo, where it finally 
disappeared altogether. 

It was hot. Barber called upon his food bag for 



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flasks of water, not without some trepidation, for in this 
shadeless region it had been impossible to keep the sun 
away from it. .His respect for the frenetic little king’s 
ability rose as the bag unfailingly answered his desires. 
But when he tried the container for cold bottled beer, he 
got only a bitter liquid that made him quickly return to 
water. 

But lie was making progress. Looking back, he saw 
a dark line of green rimming the horizon — the forest. 
In spite of his hard night, he felt strong and full of 
energy. 

He plodded resolutely on. The dust-green shrubs 
had now mostly gone. The- ground was all sand and 
pebbles with bunches of coarse grass here and there, • 
across which he steered by the sun. The loneliness and 
silence of the landscape was beginning to weigh on him. 
Even the- presence of the too-affectionate apple sprite 
would have been a relief, he decided, and began to won- 
der unhappily about what happened to people lost in 
deserts. * *’ 

‘ Miles of nothing. 

‘ Suppose he had bee^misdirected or had lost his way ? 
Suppose he were isolated for keeps in this ironing board 
of a landscape ? Oberon’s bag would keep him in food 
and water, perhaps .indefinitely, perhaps only to the next 
shaping, while he walked, walked, walked.' Forever 
was a long time. 

His beard would grow long and — Whoa, there was 
a possibility of escape. .. His wings, those absurd shoul- 
der-blade bunches, would grow, too.. He craned his 
neck around to look over his shoulder. There was cer- 
tainly some kind of projection present, swelling his 
jacket to hunchback proportions. He tried using the 
new muscles at his chest, and could just see the projec- 
tions wiggle. Interesting. He wondered if, when the 
wings came out, the ability to use them would grow too; 

‘ or whether he would have to be pushed off a high place 
to learn how, like an eaglet from its nest. Who would, 
catch him if he fell? - — 

Consideration of the question diverted him till he no- 
ticed that his shadow had lengthened across the feature- 
less plain and the sun was setting. Evidently he was to f 
be caught out there for the night. Malacea had said it 
was only a walk of an hour or two — something wrong 
somewhere. He hoped it was only that she was a tree 
sprite and could not know this desert, but all. the same 
the fear of this eternal emptiness, came back and sat at 
the" edge of his mind, waiting to be invited into the 
center. 

There was no help for it at this moment. For bet- 
ter or worse, he was stuck for the night. He sat down 
where he was, waited till the red ball of fire dipped un- 
der the horizon, and then fished* in the food bag. Un- 
like the forest night, this one was brilliant with stars, 
though Barber, looking aloft, could recognize none of 
the constellations. . 

Since there was nothing else to do, he scratched hip 
and shoulder holes in the sand and went to sleep. 

The sun woke him by hitting him squarely in the eye. 
He stood up, stiff f rotn his comfortless bed and looked 



around. There was a line of hills, rimming the distance 
in plain sight, and they could only be the Kobold Hills, 
his goal at last. He gave a shout of delight which was 
lost in the immense silence ; requisitioned a flask of 
water from the bag, and started briskly toward the hills. 

VIII. 

Long before the hills were high about him, Barber 
was conscious of. their clamor on that still air. , The 
rhythm was. set by an insistent metallic beat, up and 
down the scale like a set of tuned tympani, so near 
waltz , time that he found himself thinking “The Blue 
;Danube” to it. But as the sounds drew nearer and 
louder a melody joined the resonance ; a chorus of many 
male voices from tenor to bass, singing indistinguishable 
_ words. The air was now gay, now melancholy, but al- 
ways in the same fascinating three-quarter beat ; for a 
bar or two Barber would catch the- hint, of something 
familiar in it. 

Around him the ground was soaring into steeps and 
declivities ; the soapy green shrubs of the desert had 
given place to oak, birch and pine. -Definitely among 
the hills now, he turned to walk forward in a more nor- 
mal fashion, and was relieved’ to find the landscape had 
ended its antics. But the ceaseless song and drumming 
now changed direction, coming from, one side and then 
•the other. As he opened out a thickly wooded draw a 
great burst of the music came charging down at him ; 
among the trees in that direction were freshly cut 
stumps, and high up in the side of the hill a glare of 
warm red light challenged the dying sun among the 
branches. . * 

- An entrance of some kind — should he chance it ? He 
hesitated for a moment, then decided against it. After 
all, he could return ; there was not the vaguest hint of a 
plan in his mind. He pressed on, noting that along here 
the ground was seamed with little paths, crisscrossing 
among the trees, pale in the fading gloom. 

As he stood looking at it the thought came to him 
that one of the most striking things about Fairyland was 
its sameness. There was no escaping an experience; 
whatever one did, whichever way one turned, it was re- 
peated until a solution had been found. Like the case of 
-Three-eyes on the road here. Wondering whether he 
had solved the problem of Malacea satisfactorily, he 
turned toward the entrance and began to climb. 

Just before his head came level with it, a new note, 
high and piping, joined the roaring melody of the 
chorus. It was a bird song, a nightjar, perfect in time 
' and melody, and Barber recognized the tune as that of 
the “Waldweben” from “Siegfried.” 

Ominous. But no use turning back now. He drew a 
breath, heaved himself across the rubble heap and 
stepped into a short passage, with a smooth-polished 
stone floor, slanting slightly down into a great hall 
whose upper reaches were lost in smoky dimness. It 
was filled with tables and lined with guttering red 
torches in brackets. ’ . . . 

Every seat at all those tables was occupied by a -little 



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31 



man, but there was no type resemblance — some clean- 
shaven with round, jolly cherubic faces, some skinny 
with goat beards, some with jowls and pointed mus- 
taches. They had mugs of beer before them, and bar- 
maids in bright dresses were hurrying among the tables 
with ifrore. As Barber watched, a fat elf pinched one of 
the girls. She jumped, tripped and came down with a 
crash ; one of the dwarves at the nearest table emptied 
his beer mug on her head. Those nearby burst into 
roars of laughter, clinging to each other’s shoulders, 
helpless with merriment. 

The incident passed unnoticed in the general uproar, 
for -the singing that Barber had heard during his ap- 
proach was now clear as coming from the throats of 
these drinkers, who were pounding out the time with 
their mugs. But it was not quite the joyous concord he 
had heard from a distance. Every little group of ko- 
bolds and sometimes every kobold in a group was work- 
ing away on a different song, flatting hideously. Only 
the metallic waltz beat of the drumming, louder now, lay 
under and united the clashing sounds. 

Barber was granted time to observe this much before 
the kobolds at the nearest table saw him. They stopped 
singing and stared at him with slack jaws, whispering 
and pointing, drawing more after them till silence spread 
across the room like ripples on a pool. It had nearly 
reached the far end, where the doors through which the 
barmaids came were barely visible, when three kobolds, 
neatly uniformed in gray, came hurrying toward him. 
The leader wore a badge in complicated gold filigree. 
He bowed low before Barber, and said : 

“Good evening, highborn sir. It is my pleasure to 
extend you the welcome of the Kobold Caverns. How 
intelligent of you to come and see the wonders of our 
beautiful place with your own eyes ! May I hope you 
will be with us for a long time ? Will you permit me to 
join you in a glass of beer ?” 

The last words came out loud in an enormous silence 
punctuated only by the waltz drumming. Barber knew 
what it was now ; it was the spund of hammers. 

“Why, I wouldn’t mind some beer, thanks,” he said. 
“But what I really want is to see whoever’s in charge 
here. Fm an ambassador from King Oberon, and — ” 

A vertical frown leaped into being between the gray 
dwarfs eyebrows. “Excuse, please,” he said, and turn- 
ing to the room, threw up his arm. “Go on,” he 
shouted, “this does not concern you.” All over the 
room faces turned back to the tables and the uproar of 
song instantly began again in full volume. Gold Badge 
turned back to Barber. 

“Ah,” he sighed, “Observe how cheerful the dear fel- 
lows are. Only the industrious can be so truly happy. 
Is that not the answer to the slanders that are pro- 
nounced against us? Will you come this way, please?” 

He gripped Barber’s arm and steered him down an 
aisle between two tables of shouting kobolds, with the 
other two guides coming along behind. “I trust you 
enjoyed your journey, highborn sir?” He glanced at 
Barber’s shoulders, then sighed again, “Ah, but you 



winged fairies are fortunate — born in a different world, 
so to speak. All we poor kobolds obtain, we must earn 
by the sweat of our brows.” 

Barber thought of his trip through the desert and 
smiled internally. “You seem to have made yourselves 
very comfortable here, though,” he said courteously. It 
would not do to push matters about the swords. 

“We do our best. All we ask is peace in which to 
carry on our honest labors.” He swung Barber around 
at a table in a recess where five bearded kobolds were 
trying to sing a part-song but missing badly because 
none of them seemed able to remember when he should 
come in. “Here we are. You can go.” He motioned 
to the occupants of the table. Two of them stood up 
docilely enough, but the one at the back brought his 
beer mug down with a bang. 

“This is organized inefficiency!” he bawled. “I’ll 
make a report to the section ! I’ll — ” 

He came to a mouth-open stop as Barber’s guide 
stepped forward, fingering the filigree badge; then 
leaped to his feet, bowing and knuckling his forehead. 
“I beg your humble pardon, worshipful sir. I did not 
know you were authorized. I — ” 

“Next time it will be the White Pit,” said Gold Badge 
evenly. “Please be seated, highborn sir, and try our 
kobold beer. Drink — and die, you know ; don’t drink 
— and die anyway. Therefore, let’s drink. Ha, ha, ha.” 
“Ha, ha, ha,” clacked his two companions in obedient 
chorus. A mug of beer -was thrust into Barber’s hand. 
It was delicious, somewhat with the flavor of bock, but 
had a tang that gave warning of a particularly heady 
brew. 

“Are you not partly of mortal kindred, highborn sir?” 
inquired Gold Badge. “I thought so ; something about 
the eyes. You will enjoy seeing our mushroom planta- 
tions. Krey here can show you all through them. He 
used to be a deputy in the Providience Section.” 

“Till the medical discovered I had a natural affinity 
for beer,” said one of the grayclads. He had a young 
face and pleasant smile over a jaw heavy enough to be 
cast iron. 

“I’d like very much to see them sometime,” said Bar- 
ber, “but just at present I’m here on really important 
business — ” 

“Oh, business !” All three burst into a gale of laugh- 
ter, which the two assistants ended by sputtering into 
their beer, whiie Gold Badge laid a hand on Barber’s 
arm. “Pardon us, highborn sir, but it is not permitted 
to discuss business at this hour in the Kobold Caverns.” 
That beer was heady; Barber could feel a spot of 
warmth on each cheekbone. But he was not so far 
gone as to miss the fact that this was a particularly elab- 
orate version of the run-around. He grinned to show 
appreciation of a joke on himself, and pushed ahead: 
“You’ll have to excuse me. I don’t know your local 
customs. But I’m an ambassador and by international 
custom have the right of transacting business at any 
time,” 

“So?” Gold Badge’s eyes narrowed a trifle. “I did 
not really understand, highborn sir. It -is most fortunate 



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that we have met for in addition to being of the Incom- 
ing Section which receives g'uests, I am also of the 
Welcoming Section to greet ambassadors. Doubtless 
you have special credentials to prove your character — 
our lady Titania's wand, orHis Radiance's “ring, or even 
a mere warrant in writing ?" 

“I did have but I — " Shame flooded Barber at the 
memdry of how he had lost the wand and he came to a 
halt. The triple laughter blended into the sound of the 
ceaseless waltz song, and Gold Badge dug him in the 
ribs : 

“Ha, ha, ha! Never mind, Mr. Ambassador, we 
won't give you away. We take things easy in the Ko- 
bold Caverns and the drinks are on the government. 
Finish that one and have another/' 

Barber* drank. 

At one point in the subsequent proceedings he 
Taught himself trying to explain the Binomial Theorem, 
of which he knew rather less than his audience, to a 
group that seemed passionately interested. At another 
he was leading them in -a vigorous rendition of “The 
Bastard King. of England/' 'Then Gold Badge seemed 
somehow to have slipped away, the hall and chorus were 
gone, -and he was descending a long, dim passage with 
Krey and the other gray-clad receptionist; a passage 
where the only sound was the three-quarter beat of the 
forges' 

The passage slanted in involuted curves under a ceil- 
ing just tall enough to give him head room. Torches 
smoked on the walls here and there, dripping an occa- 
sional spark, and where their light fell strongest the wall 
was perspiring in big, dank drops. The black mouths of' 



other tunnelings yawned to right and left at each turn ; 
there were no lights in them. 

“ — our mountain mushrooms, cooked in a butter of 
beechnuts/' Krey was saying. “I have mush room in 
my stomach for them. Ha, ha, ha." 

“Ha, ha, hahaha," the passage echoed sepulchrally. 
At each branching tunnel the sound of the hammer beats 
was louder and clearer. When they reached the nexf 
turn-and-entrance Barber pretended to stagger, and a 
little illogically vexed at finding how easy it was to let 
himself go, clutched vainly at the smooth wall, slid and 
lay with his head half in the side tunnel. The hammer 
blows drowned Krey's footsteps — he had on some kind 
of soft shoes — but Barber's ear caught the accent of his 
voice, and the note of a retreating laugh. Bumpity - . 
bump , bump-bump , bump-bump went the hammers to 
the spund of a mentally hummed “Blue Danube" ; and 
the floor was cold stone, but an enormous alcoholic 
weariness invaded Barber's limbs and it was suddenly 
pleasant to lie right there. 

“Mus’ get up," he told himself fuzzily, but only man- 
aged to twitch a leg while half his brain cried a warning 
to a too-well-satisfied other half. 

Clang! Somebody dropped something. The eldritch 
idea assailed Barber that the sound represented the fall 
of Krey's face when that strong-chinned worthy discov- 
ered his disappearance. Laughter released his paraly- . 
sis ; chuckling over the inane drunken humor of the idea, 
he pulled himself to. knees, then feet. The side passage 
was as black as the inside of a dog, sloping down rather 
steeply, and he had to keep one hand on the Wall for 
support as well as direction. But fifty or a hundred 
yards on it turned suddenly and he found himself at 
the head of a flight of low steps, looking down into a 
wide cavern. There was a torch in the wall near him ; 
it showed a' shapeless mound of something occupying 
the whole center of the cave, covered over with a cloth. 
Right at the head of the stairs a small iron bar was set 
across the passage about two feet up.. The latter puz- 
zled him till he remembered that the.kobolds were the 
only people of Fairyland who could touch Jron. The 
bar would be good as a locked door to anyone but him- 
self, but he stepped over it and down the stairs. 

The cloth was loose. He lifted one edge and gave a 
whistle,- for there they were: rapiers, sabers, claymores, - 
panzerstechers, yataghans, cutlasses, and dozens of 
other kinds of swords whose names he did not even 
know, each kind in its own bundle and thousands -of 
them altogether. This was what the kobolds were try- ’ 
ing to hide from him all right, but what could he— 

“So." . 

The tone was even, but nasty. Barber, a cold per- 
spiration of sudden sobriety making a little spot between 
his shoulder blades, turned and looked into the eyes of 
Krey. The pleasant smile was gone; in the second or 
two that they stood- gazing at eachv other, the kobold 
fumbled a little silver whistle out of his tunic and blew. 
Instantly there were shouts and the sound of running 
feet ; another door at the back of the room, which Bar- 
ber had not noticed, was filled with dwarfish figures. 



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THE LAND OF UNREASON 



For a moment the idea of seizing up one of the 
blades and slashing out among them leaped through 
Barber’s head — but where would he go among those 
complex tunnels ? Krey seemed to follow his thought : 

“I advise you not to attempt resistance,” h'e said 
coldly. Barber noticed that among the . crowding ko- 
bolds at the back door a disciplined battalion with spears 
in their hands were pushing forward. The heads of the 
spears were leaf-shaped and looked extremely sharp. 
He dropped his hands at his side in a gesture of sur- 
render. 

“It is too bad,” Krey went on, “that you must spoil 
a fine evening by abusing the hospitality of the Caverns. 
Now you must bear the consequences — Take him to 
the trial room !” 

One of the spearmen jabbed Barber in the leg. He 
jumped and yelped, “Damn it! I didn’t ask for your 
hospitality and I don’t think very much of it. I’m here 
as an ambassador and I claim diplomatic immunity.’’ 

“Diplomatic immunity confers no license to break the 
criminal laws.” Krey turned his back; the guards 
closed around Barber, and with lowered spear points, 
shepherded him toward the back door of the room. 
There was a passage with torches ; it branched, and Bar- 
ker was urged down the fork to the right, along a ramp 
and through an arch. 

He was in a long and high cavern from whose walls 
and ceiling projected elaborate carved wood dingleber- 
ries in the most atrocious taste. At the far end a kobold 
with a long nose and prick ears was seated before a 
table on a lo\v dais, writing feverishly and surrounded 
by a perfect mountain of papers. The way to his seat 
was lined by a double row of kobold guards with swords 
in their hands, standing rigidly and staring at each 
other. Barber was urged down the alley between them 
to the foot of the dais, and one of the spearmen let the 
butt of his weapon drop to the floor with a thump. 

The long-nosed kobold looked up with a sour expres- 
sion. “Guard Section 11. Prisoner found spying in 
arsenal room. Authorization of Krey, Incoming Sec- 
tion 4,” said the spearman, in the metallic voice of an 
old-fashioned phonograph. 

“Look here,” Barber burst in, “you’re going to have 
some trouble about this. I’m a perfectly legal ambas- 
sador from King Oberon and — ” 

Long-nose took a new sheet of paper and scribbled. 
“Your protest is noted and rejected,” he cut in. “All 
residents of the Kobold Caverns, whether metic or 
natural, are subject to the same restrictions. I sentence 
you to- 1 -” 

“But I’m not a resident!” cried Barber desperately. 
He could see two of the sword bearers start toward him, 
and the thought of what the sentence might be gave him 
cold shivers. “I’m not even a resident of Fairyland. 
I’m a mortal.” 

. Long-nose’s brows elevated. “A mortal ! Just a mo^ 
ment, please, I must find a precedent. Though I warn 
you it will not be so pleasant for you, since you have 
now added perjury to the other charge. Mortals do not 
have wings.” He turned to one of the mounds of papers 



which reached desk-high from the floor, and began shuf- 
fling through them. They had not been disturbed for a 
long time, apparently, for a little cloud of dust rose from 
them. Long-nose’s face worked convulsively, his head 
went back, and he emitted a thundering sneeze. 

“God bless you,” said Barber automatically. 

“YEEEEE !” All the kobolds together joined in the 
ear-piercing shriek. The spearmen dropped their spears, 
the swordsmen their swords, the long-nosed judge 
jumped over the table, and all together they raced for 
the exits. In two minutes Barber was left alone with 
the discarded weapons, the mound of papers, and the 
gingerbread carving. 

IX. 

Barber picked up a few of the swords. Oberon had 
certainly told him not to use force on the kobolds, and it 
seemed that other methods were more effective — why 
hadn’t he remembered from the beginning that medieval 
legend always mentioned the name of God as anathema 
to these people of the hills ? Still, one of these swords 
would be a handy object if he encountered the plum or 
other monsters of that ilk. . Most of the weapons were 
too small, but he found a claymore which; being de- 
signed for both a kobold’s little fists, was about right for 
one of his own. 

Doorways led in several directions among the forest 
of lambrequins, and the way he had entered by was not 
promising. He chose an exit at random and found him- 
self in one of the usual passages, which ran on, dipping 
and winding past rooms dark and rooms lighted. All 
were untenanted, and Barber was conscious of some- 
thing vaguely wrong in the air, as impalpable as a 
thought. He tried to shake it off, tried to hum “Blue 
Danube” — and then it came to him what the difference 
was. The undertone of the hammers, no longer so 
loud, had changed from the three-quarter beat of a waltz 
to the four-quarter of march time. 

The passage also had changed character. Its walls 
and ceilings were trued off smoothly now, and no longer 
dripped, so that it was like a corridor in an office build- 
ing. A few yards ahead the feeble light showed a pair 
of bronzy doors with a complex design in massive relief. 
Barber put his ear to the doors. Not a sound within. 
He pushed one of them gently. 

Beyond the door was another hall, huge as that of the 
drinkers, but only feebly lit by a couple of torches. 
Their flames reflected redly on bright stone of walls 
and floor ; the ceiling was lost in gloom. Barber caught 
his breath sharply at the sight of what seemed to be 
human figures in nitches all down the walls. Inspection 
showed them to be suits of kobold-size Gothic armor, 
with the visors of the armets down so that it was impos- 
sible to tell whether they held living creatures. 

He stepped over to the nearest and touched it on the 
plastron with his sword. It gave forth a metallic scrape 
rather than the ring of hollowness, but remained im- 
mobile. When he tried to lift the visor that mechanism 
would not budge. 

Barber turned toward the far end of the hall. It held 



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a long* low table, with a row of chairs down one side. 
At the end was a much larger chair, with a low seat but 
a high', intricately carved back and damask upholstery. 
It looked like a throne. 

Barber walked the length of the hall to examine this 
throne more closely. There was nothing special about 
it, but let into the wall behind it was a copper plate with 
lettering on it. Barber bent to puzzle out the Gothic 
inscription : 

Of places three 
The one you see 
Fyrst touched shall bee. 

Meaningless. Or perhaps not quite. He remembered 
a line of Malacca's song : 

“When he touches the three places — ” Perhaps he 
was supposed to touch this one. Just for the hell of it, 
he reached out and touched the plate with the point of 
his sword. % 

Crash ! 

The room, stood out vivid in a blue- white flash of 
lightning, then pitched into darkness while, thunder 
rumbled to and fro among the caverns like ten thousand 
cannon balls rolling downstairs. Barber froze while the 
thunder died, straining his eyes against the black. 
Every hair follicle on his face tingled till his jaw seemed 
on fire, and he felt a sudden tug at the back of his jacket 
where the wing cases were. 

> 

The room slowly returned to normal, the fiery pin- 
. wheels before his eyes disappearing. He looked round. 
He could swear that the halberd in the hand of that suit 
of armor swayed. The torches were guttering out, 
darkness creeping from above like a spider lowering it- 
self on its thread. He heard "a faint, fricative sound, 
that might be breath whistling in and out through the 
holes of a visor, and realized with a shock that the ham- 
mer sounds in the distance had gone altogether dumb. 

There was a faint scrape of metal on steel plate and 
then, small but startling in the silence, the sound of a 
cough. Barber turned and trotted on tiptoe down the 
length of that shiny expanse of stone. The end seemed 
twice as distant as before, like the vanishing point in a 
diagram showing the laws of perspective. Before he 
reached it he was frankly running. At the last moment 
the torches gave a final flicker and went out together, 

■ He made the last few strides in darkness, located a door 
handle by feel and tugged it open, with a sense of wild 
relief. - , 

No more than before did he Have any idea where he 
was, and now all those passages were more than ever 
void, with not even the sound of the forges to keep him 
company. But the luck that had run with him through 
the caverns still held ; after an hour or more of wander- 
ing he reached a fork where one passage led to the drab 
pallor of daylight instead of the ubiquitous torch glow. 

The sun had just risen when he came to the mouth, 
up on a high hillside looking out across a rolling and 
' grassy champaign, quite unlike the desert through 
which he had trekked to reach the place. Off in the 



middle distance, half hidden by the intervening rolls, 
w r as a group of brown and yellow rectangles that would 
be a farm or its Fairyland equivalent. Beyond, the 
darker green of trees. 

There would be life of some sort there, and not kobold 
life. Barber went down the hillside in long, leaping 
steps, his lungs glad of the fresh air. 

It was like a late summer morning in New England 
with dewy spiderwebs on the grass and a few early 
midges in their aerial dance above. Grasshoppers 
sprang out from before his feet, whirred away over the 
rich meadow. 

Barber paused at the lip of the last rise and rubbed 
his fingers through a considerable growth of whisker. 
His appearance was “ certainly odd enough to cause 
alarm, but there was no razor handy, nor did he feel 
like dropping the sw r ord. 

From the top of the hill he could see the farm, spread 
before him in orderly checkerboards marked off by stone 
fences. The farmer did not look up till he heard the 
sound of a displaced stone as Barber climbed over the 
nearest fence. He was a big, burly man with rolled-up 
shirt sleeves and a pair of gaudily checked pants sus- 
tained by a single gallows at the top, and at the bottom 
tucked into jack boots. As Barber drew near, he turned 
a ruddy face in which a pair of startlingly blue eyes 
looked out over gray-flecked sideburns. His glance fell 
on the sword ; without wasted motion he dropped his 
hoe, stepped lightly to an angle of the fence, and picked 
up a formidable-looking broadax. Feet spread, he stood 
facing Barber without hostility or fear. 

• “Hello,” said Barber. 

The farmer replied : “Howdy, mister,” He relaxed a 
little and lowered the ax. “Nice mornin’.” 

“Yes, it is,” agreed Barber judicially. “My name’s 
Barber.” 

“Glad to make your ’quaintance, Mr. Barber. Mine's 
Fawcett, Noah Fawcett. Where you from?” 

“King Oberon's place.” 

“Be you one of the heathen ?” 

“I'm not a fairy, if that's what you mean.” 

“Don't believe in fairies. They're just heathen. You 
work for Oberon?” 

“Yes. I'm an ambassador.” 

“Well, I declare to goodness. Where was you from 
originally?” ^ 

Barber smiled. “Lansing, Michigan, if you want to 
go back that far.” 

Noah Fawcett frowned. “Don't guess I know . .. . 
say, d’you mean Michigan Territory?” 

“It’s a State now. Admitted to the Union in 1835.” 
“Well, by. the tamal nation. Harry Clay alius said 
we ought to take her in. A real American.” Fawcett 
dropped his ax definitely now and stepped forward to 
shake hands. “Come on in and make yourself t' hum, 
mister. How old be you ?- Be you married ? What's 
your church? Be you Whig or one of. those Damo- 
crats? How’d you come to work for Oberon? What's 
the news from back in the States?” 



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Barber’s movement of desperation halted the spate of 
inquiry, and Noah Fawcett gave a deep, chesty laugh. 
“Guess I be jumpin’ ahead of the thills, but I ain't see 
ary man but the svvandangled heathen for a right long 
spell, let alone a real American. Get pretty lonesome 
for news.” He was leading the way to the larger of a 
pair of clapboarded buildings. Everything had the in- 
describable lack of sophisticated design Barber had 
noted in articles made by Continental peasants. 

Noah Fawcett caught his glance. “Yep,” he said, 
“Made the hull business, mostly winters when they 
wan’t nathin’ else on hand. ‘Through the idleness of 
hands the house droppeth through,’ the Good Book says. 
That rack, now” — lie indicated a pair of jigsawed brack- 
ets against the wall — “was for a gun. But I never could 
get a barrel, even from the mountain heathen, and 
they’re pretty cute about ironwork. You can put your 
sword there. That’s a funny hump on your back. Was 
you hurt when you was little?” 

“No. I guess it just grew there.” 

Fawcett shook his head. “Better be careful of that, 
Mr. Barber. I had a cousin over to Lou-isy had one 
of those lumps come on his chest, and the doctor said 
how he died of it. But I don’t put much store by doc- 
tors. Now you set down and I shall get some where- 
withal to celebrate. Be you married ?” 

Without waiting for Barber’s reply he lifted a 
trapdoor and dived into a cellar, to return' in a moment 
with a jug. “Berry wine,” commented Fawcett, pour- 
ing some into a pair of wooden mugs with a pleasant 
glugging sound. “ ’Tain’t’s good as the cider I make, 
but I’m a little mite short-handed, and have to go a long 
piece for m’apples. How come you to work for the 
heathen king ? Does he pay good wages ? He’s all right 
for a heathen, but they’re all like Injuns and wood- 
chucks ; it wan’t do to take ary sass from them. Had a 
run-in with him myself a while back.” 

He chuckled at the memory. Barber experienced a 
sudden twinge of embarrassment at the thought of his 
own ready acceptance of the authority of the “heathen” 
court, and was glad he had not mentioned the incipient 
wings. “Ho\v did that happen?” he asked, to keep the 
conversation on safe lines. 

“Passel of plaguey whoop-te-tiddle about some logs. 
When I come , here I made a deal, fair and square, to 
farm this land and swap my produce. I built me that 
little sod house you seen outside. Come fall, I went 
down to the river to get stun, and found a hull batch of 
apple trees, so I grubbed up some of the littlest and 
planted ’em round my house. They growed all right, 
but I had to get rid of ’em.” 

Fawcett paused dramatically to take a pinch of snuff, 
and held out the box to Barber, who declined and asked 
the expected: “Why?” 

“The heathen. At night, they’d come dancin’ around, 
wavin’ their arms and scowlin’ suthin’ metaphorical. 
They was dressed up in bark like they was tryin’ to give 
me a chivaree. We Fawcetts don’t scare easy. When 
I went out to give ’em a piece of my mind they all took 



after me. I pulled foot back into the house and grabbed 
my ax. Right there I larnt that must of the heathen is 
tarnal ’fraid of iron. Some superstition of theirn. Long 
as I had that ax they wouldn’t come nigh me.” Fawcett 
bent to a bootjack. “Pull off your shoes and be com- 
fortable, mister.” 

Barber was willing enough to do so. The shoes 
given him by the king’s tailor had been comfortable 
enough in the beginning, but the walking he had done 
seemed to have spread his feet so much that they were 
tight ; it was a relief to get rid of them. “I thought you 
said it was something about logs,” he said. 

“I be cornin’ to that. They kept cornin’ around at 
night. When I asked ’em why 'they couldn’t let a 
Christian sleep, they told me they was sperrits of the 
trees. Now I be a moderate man, but it says in hundred 
and first Psalm, ‘He that telleth lies shall not tarry in 
my sight,’ and furthermore, ‘Regard not them that have 
familiar sperrits/ so that got my dander up. I cut 
down those trees and used the logs to start my little log 
house that’s a com crib now. . Well, I like to had a 
heathen uprisin’ on my hands.” 

Fawcett made another dramatic caesura, empha- 
sized it by getting up to refill both mugs, and asked with 
elaborate offhandedness : “Have much trouble with up- 
rising out in the new States ?” 

“Not very,” Barber smiled. “But what happened? 
How did you put down the uprising ?” 

'‘Well, the heathen came around ag’in, yellin’ notori- 
ously, and makin’ out I’d massacreed a mort of their 
relations. They was goin’ to tell the king and have the 
law on me. ‘Law ahead/ says I, knowin’ I had the 
king’s leave to farm this land, and the guv-ment’s word 
has to be better’n the next man’s or he’d be runnin’ 
things. So I went down to the river and got some more 
trees. I skidded ’em out with Federalist — ” 

“Who?” interrupted Barber. 

“Federalist. My hoss, that the king guv me when we 
made the deal. I finished my house ; but it just goes to 
show what the Good Book says: ‘Put not thy trust in 
princes.’ Along come that king, madder’n a nest of 
hornets and wanted to cancel the hull deal and put me 
off my land. - 1 told him I was a citizen of the U-nited 
States and protected by its constitution, that says the 
obligations of contract shall not be impaired, the way 
John Marshall told ’em in that there Georgia land case, 
a few years back. Well, he hemmed and he hawed, and 
the heathen with him ripped around till I got tired of 
hearin’ ’em. I told him we Bay Staters fit a war to git 
rid of one king, and if he was minded to see how we did 
it, I’d show him right there. 

“That didn’t take him so good ; he fizzed like a firin’ 
pan, and I thought we was goin’ to have real troublous 
times, till all of a sudden it come over me to say: ‘See 
here, my hearty, there be more of us Fawcetts cornin’ 
this way, so you better not try ary monkeyshines with 
the first one. I be a moderate man.. If those trees are 
special pets of yourn, you could tell me so without a 
lot of cock-and-bull about sperrits, for I do not believe 



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. UNKNOWN WORLDS 



in vain- boastin’, as is related in the first book of the 
Kings of Israel, twentieth chapter. 'I shall make you a 
hoss trade,’ I said to him. 'If your people’ll deliver me 
good sound timber for some of my produce I shall leave 
your pet trees be.’ By and by he ca’med down and seen ' 
the sense of it, and that’s how it’s been ever since. But 
it seems agin’ nater to have a farm without a wood lot. 

I guess now I’ve done enough talkin’. Tell me about 
your trip here, mister. See ary Injuns? How’d you 
come by the sword?” 

One sentence in the narrative had caught Barber’s 
attention. "Oh, I got that from the— kobolds in the 
mountain,” he parried. "But didn’t you say something 
about more of you Fawcetts?” 

The farmer sloshed the lees of his drink around the 
bottom of the mug and tossed it off. ^"Brothers,” he 
answered briefly. "Obadiah and Lemuel — he married 
one of the Whiting gals. They was goin’ to leave Mid- 
dlesex County the summer arter me, and follow right 
along the, Albany trail. But it’s been a mighty long 
time, and I sometimes consider mebbe they got caught 
by the Injuns or some of those other heathen — ” He 
glanced at the clock. "Time to put the victuals on,” he 
Said in a changed tone, and got up. 

X. 

In the ghostly gray light just before sunrise Barber 
was wakened by a large hand on his shoulder. For a 
few sleepy moments he stared uncomprehendingly up- 
ward at the side-whiskered face and the wall beyond, his 
body savoring the comfort of bed after many nights on 
the ground. 

"Time to lay into the chores, mister,” said Fawcett 
cheerfully. ' 

Barber stretched, yawned and touched a prickly chin. 
The assumption that he had signed on as a farmhand 
struck him as pretty cool, but he contemplated the pros- 
pect without resentment. Perhaps Oberon had intended 
it that way. "Have you got an extra razor I could bor-. 
row ?” he asked. 

"Well, now that I think,” replied the farmer, "that’s 
one thing there be’nt in this hull place. They’s a virtoo 
in the water or suthin’ that makes a man’s hair stay put ; 
mine ain’t growed a mite since I been here. Let’s have 
suthin’ to 'strengthen by the spirit the inner man,’ as 
the Apostle Paul wrote to the Ephesians. I consider I 1 
be lucky, without ary stock .to feed before I can have my 
breakfast.” 

The farmer clumped -heavily toward the stairs. "The 
heathen’d probably run ’em off and call it a conjurin’ 
trick. They’re always up to tricks,” he said. "I call to 
mind the time I planted^ some cukes in that little gusset 
of land down by the river. They come up measly little 
things with funny leaves. That upset the mountain 
heathen suthin 5 scandalous. They’re almighty fond of 
cukes.” 

He was laying out the breakfast with slouching effi- 
ciency. "What happened?” Barber encouraged him. 

"Why, they come to me, and they said: 'There has 

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been a shapin’ and your cukes have turned into ivy 
plants. But never you mind,’ they said. 'We shall un- 
dertake to conjure ’em back for you. I told ’em to go 
right ahead, long’s they didn’t step on the plants. 
Nathin’ much tenderer’n a young cuke. Well, the hull 
kit-’n’-boodle of ’em come down from the mountain 
‘‘and pow-wowed ’round half one night, and sure enough, 
the cukes growed all right arter that.” 

Fawcett seated himself at the table and began to eat, 
waving Barber to another chair. "Do you mean the 
conjuring really helped the cucumbers?” asked Barber. 

The farmer chuckled through a .mouthful of food. 
"-Don’t you think I be in my right senses? It wan’t 
the shapin’ that like to spoiled the cukes or the con- 
jurin’ that saved ’em. Hoss manure is just no good for 
cukes ; I knowed that when I put ’em in, but it was all 
I had. But the day before the heathen did their fancy 
tricks I found a salt-lick back in the woods a piece and 
got some good deer manure that did the business. The 
tarnation heathen had the gall to ask for a reduction in 
the price of the crop. Well, the way seasons run here, I 
guess mebbe we could get in a little buckwheat today.” 

Barber was city-bred, and had never before experi- 
enced the contentments that rise from watching and pro- 
ducing the growth of the soil — seeing bare earth sprout 
delicate green hairs one day, so fine they were almost 
invisible except as a sheen ; three days later returning 
to find them tiny but palpable plants, and in a week 
sturdily putting forth leaf and branch. 

As early as the third day Barber had given up trying 
to tell the farmer about such modernities as electric light 
and skyscrapers. The farmer received the information 
with the same amused skepticism he gave to the "heathen 
conjurin’s” — making it ail seem unimportant, as indeed 
it was fo the life of the place, and Barber lacked the in- 
formation to beat down his objections. 

"They was a professor down to Harvard proved a 
steamboat couldn’t hold enough wood to take it ’cross 
the ocean,” he would say with an air of finality, and get- 
ting out a very homemade banjo, chanted rather than 
sang, in a raucous nasal tenor : 

“It was the brilliant autumn time 
When the army of the north 
With its cannon and dragoons , 

' • And its riflemen came forth . 

“Through the country all abroad 
There zvas spread a mighty fear „ 

Of the Indians in the van 
And the Hessians in the rear — ” 

Or they would sit above a board through a long evening, 
drinking berry wine and playing nine-man morris. Life 
rolled smoothly Oberon, the war, his former existence 
were lapped deep in the wave of the past, and it might 
not be too bad to slide forever through this region of 
perfect peace. 

Or almost perfect. There was the incident of the 
broken hoe. Both men were engaged in what Fawcett 
called "cultivatin’ ” a field of potatoes, an operation that 

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seemed singularly pointless to Barber, as it consisted in 
no more than digging vigorously with a hoe at the base 
of the young plants, piling the earth half an inch deeper 
around the stalks. “Makes a neat field/' was Fawcett's 
only answer to Barber's protest that the few sprigs of 
grass rooted up in the process could be of no importance 
to the potatoes, which grew underground in any case. 
“Good farmers have neat fields/' 

As he brought his hoe down in a particularly vigor- 
ous sweep to emphasize some conversational point he 
was making, the farmer struck a sub-soil rock and the 
blade snapped off at the shank. He clucked annoyance 
over the small disaster. “Guess I shall have to make 
another hoss trade with the mountain heathen/' he re- 
marked, when he had replaced the instrument with an- 
other from the house. “Ain’t got but three hoes to the 
hull place. That's funny, too, now I call it to mind. 
They ain't been 'round for a right smart spell ; usually 
you can't keep 'em away, 'specially when they know I 
been makin' berry wine. They’d most trade their eye- 
teeth out for berry wine." 

Next morning after breakfast he dug out a big blue- 
and-white flag on the end of a stick and affixed it to the 
roof of the house. He explained that this was the sig- 
nal he wanted to trade with the kobolds. No kobolds 
came that day or the next. The second night Fawcett 
showed a trace of worry across the supper table. 

“Dunno what's come over 'em ; maybe they're waxed 
at me 'bout suthin'. They have mighty ungainly ideas 
about what’s right, those mountain heathen, and when 
a man won’t go Tong with 'em, they set in the seats of 
the scornful. But I should hate to lose their trade ; ain't 
been ary hardware peddler through this way since I 
-come. A man can't farm without tools." 

“I could go look them up and find out what's wrong," 
offered Barber tentatively. 

“By George, that's right ! Them mountain heathen is 
choosy as all git out 'bout lettin' people into their place, 
but I fergit you was a perfessional ambassador to in- 
crease perfumes afar off in the sight of the Lord, like it 
says in fifty-seven Isaiah. Tell you what, mister ; I shall 
give you a jug of berry wine in the mornin' and you 
mosey up there/' 

Barber was already repenting his overready sugges- 
tion, but there was no decent method of withdrawing. 
Next day he set out across the little belt ofupland roll- 
ing to the Kobold Hills. As he went he became more 
than ever regretful over having let himself in for this 
piece of foolishness. The day was hot. Made thus as a 
reversed experience, the journey, underlined something 
of which he had been only vaguely conscious for some 
time : that he felt definitely less well than he had before; 

No, “felt" was the wrong verb, he assured himself, 
realizing with the other, critical half of his brain that 
the ceaseless flow of Fawcett’s chatter had kept him 
from introspection for weeks. He “felt" like a prize 
bull pup, now that he thought ; his sensations with re- 
gard to the world about him were of extreme enjoy- 
ment. If he could have been translated back to the 



embassy, he would have plunged into the compilation 
of official reports with positive delight. 

In short, he felt swell. It was the physical equip- 
ment that accompanied his feelings that seemed to be 
showing deterioration. His legs were stiff. And was it 
hypochondriac imagination, or had they" acquired a ten- 
dency to bow? The other manifestation was real 
enough ; his feet had spread outrageously. The shoes 
made by the royal tailor he had been forced to discard 
at the end of the first week at Fawcett's. Now he was 
wearing a pair of the farmer's enormous boots, and even 
these, which had begun by fitting him like bedroom slip- 
pers, were now pinching painfully. 

There was something wrong with his eyes, too. When 
not consciously focused on something, they had a ten- 
dency to roll outward — not painful, but noticeable when 
he discovered that he was seeing double. It must be 
some kind of allergy or vitamin deficiency, he decided. 
It might be due to a diet which, though it included 
plenty of fresh vegetables, lacked dairy products and 
any meat but the venison Fawcett secured by trading 
with the “heathen." At all events it appeared to have 
the compensating benefit of causing those absurd shoul- 
der blade wings of his to stop growing. They had actu- 
ally shrunk an inch or two. 

Barber was at the entrance of the caverns. All dark 
inside, and now that he noticed it, all silent, too. It 
seemed absurd to plunge into that well of night, and 
equally absurd to turn back without trying it. After a 
moment more of irresolution, he gathered force and 
took the step, feeling along the wall with one hand. 

The wall was slightly damp, and the deeper he .went 
the more he cursed himself for a fool — with no light or 
Ariadne’s clue to bring him out again. He started 
counting his steps, trying to keep them even in length, 
which would be at least some help — Twenty-two, 
twenty-thrde, twenty-four — he paused, turned and 
looked back at the shield of light. Still there — A 
hundred and forty-nine, a hundred and fifty — he turned 
again, saw the light-spot smaller, and wished he had 
started counting at the very mouth of the tunnel. 

A hundred yards more — and the supporting wall at his 
right suddenly disappeared, so that he went sprawling. 
Branch in the tunnel. It brought him face to face with 
the problem of carrying on, through those blind in- 
voluted galleries. No, certainly not worth it, with no 
lights and no sign of life. He compromised by stand- 
ing at the angle for a moment and shouting. There was 
no answer but the monotonous drip, drip, drip of the 
subterranean water. After waiting a few more hope- 
less moments he turned and groped his way back. - 

When he reached the mouth of the cavern, the morn- 
ing’s faint overcast had turned to cloud and persistent, 
drizzling rain that felt delightful after the heat. Faw- 
cett was nowhere visible as Barber trudged across the 
rises, toward the homestead. Neither was the horse, 
Federalist. That probably meant that the farmer had 
ridden up the stream to indulge in his favorite rainy 
day sport of conducting a trade with the forest natives. 



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Barber went into the house and upstairs to a room 
which was used relatively rarely. Fawcett had fur- 
nished it with unusual elaboration, even to window cur- 
tains of his own manufacture and in materials that had 
probably never been used for curtaining before. It was 
the sturdy Yank's one touch of sentiment, the one indi- 
cation that he might harbor the thought of a partnership 
in this wilderness. Barber had found him reticent on, 
the point except when the farmer delivered one of his 
occasional tirades on the habits of the heathen. 

“Them women, now,” he would say, waving his mug 
of wine. “Some of 'em are purty as a pitcher; look like 
good workers, too. But they skrawk 'round like chick- 
turkeys with the pip till a man could chaw the wall. 
They have a superstition; you say suthin' to 'em, and 
accordin’ to their rules, they’s only two- three replies 
they can make.” 

. * Barber jumped to his feet with sudden horror. When 
he had come into that room and seated himself in the 
homemade rocking chair, there had certainly been a 
pair of flies cruising about the ceiling. The door was . 
closed, and the windows, but the flies were no longer 
there — 

And Barber could remember distinctly that while he 
had been meditating on. Fawcett's sentimental spot, he 
had once — twice — shot a hand * out, with the ease of 
reflex action, and put it to his mouth.. - 

He began to pace the floor in agitation, hunting for 
the answer, then paused with a flash of recollection. It 
was his own fault. He had allowed himself to sink into 
the contentment of this farm. But it was not the discov- 
ery of the good life, it was old-fashioned shirking. The 
venture into the Kobold Caverns had been only half his 
task. The responsibility remained. Whatever had 
gone wrong with him would probably, nay certainly, 
grow worse till he finished his job. It was the' “mis- 
adventured piteous overthrow” the queen had promised. 

And how was he to finish that job? How find his 
way back through the caverns, across the desert and to 
the plum who had taken that confounded stick ? Damn 
it ! He kicked at air in irritation over the unfairness of 
everything. Why did all these Fairyland people Jiave 
to be so vague ? Fawcett was the only one in the lot 
capable of a definite statement, and now Barber was be- 
ing forced to leave him behind. 

A sound outside made him step to the window. Faw- 
cett was riding into the .yard, with rain dripping from 
his own hat and the horse’s mane, an expression of 
pleasure on his sideburned face. The trading expedi- 
tion had evidently been a success ; across his saddlebow 
was a large and bulging bag, incongruously made of 
cloth-of-gold, with the handle of something sticking out 
of it. It occurred to Barber that , the last thing in the 
world he wanted was to explain his plight to’ that cold- 
eyed and skeptical New Englander. He took three 
quick steps across the room, flung open the door, and 
dashed into his own room. > The sword was there; he 
snatched it up, went down the stairs three at a time, and 
looked out the kitchen window. Fawcett had just dis- 



mounted, and was leading Federalist into the sod house 
barn. 

' Barber stepped quickly to the door of the kitchen- 
living room and out, slipped around the house to put it 
between him and the farmer, and started, off. He looked 
back now and then, changing direction slightly to keep 
the bulk of the buildings between him and the house, 
and so angling away from the Kobold Hills. The rain 
felt good on his face. v 

Not till he was passing among the first sentinels of a 
line of trees did he remember the Kobold caves again 
and the fact that he was leaving Fawcett in quite genu- 
ine trouble, with his supply of iron tools cut off. If he 
found the wand and returned to Oberon with it, perhaps 
that monarch would do something for the farmer. 

If he found the wand. 

XI. 

The trees drew in around him to form an extensive 
grove. Big/ slow drops slipped from their branches, 
and the going was heavy. But when Barber glanced 
aloft he saw a streak of blue among the clouds, and by 
the time he had reached the far -side of the tree belt the 
sun broke through to shine down/clear and bright, as 
though nature itself were smiling on his resolution to 
take the road again. Here the . ground pitched down 
across a meadow of rank grass toward a watercourse — 
probably the river to which Fawcett had occasionally 
/referred. 

The river ran on sluggishly7not much wider than that 
• in the forest. It spread into a pool where Barber 
paused on its bank in the shade of a tall poplar. There 
was yellow sand on the bottom, spotted with dead 
leaves, cool and inviting in its rippled refraction. Noth- 
ing else moved but a pair of dragonflies patrolling over 
the pool, intent on their own particular brand of murder. 

Barber paused, one hand on the poplar trunk. He 
contemplated the dragonflies and realized he was hun- 
gry. When they flew in opposite directions his eyes 
swung out on independent orbits, one following each of 
the insects, and his appetite increased. 

Hell, he was getting to the stage of wanting to eat 
dragonflies! Titania’s “overthrow” was affecting his 
mind as well as his body. 

What he needed was a swim. Maybe that would 
snap him out of it. . 

He peered along the line of poplars, saw no one and 
nothing, and undressed with fumbling haste. 

The poplar roots had assembled enough earth around 
themselves to make a little hummock at the edge of the 
pool. He stood erect on it for a moment, stretched 
comfortably, took a deep breath and dove. 

No shock. As soon as he was well, under water he 
opened his eyes. The thought flashed across his mind 
that this was the strangest swim or the strangest water 
that he had ever been in. There was curiously no feel- 
ing of wetness. Below him lay the rhottled yellow-and- 
brown bottom, clear and bright, but much farther down 



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than it had looked from above. He might almost have 
been floating through an aqueous atmosphere in one of 
those Freudian dreams of wingless flight. 

He drew up his legs and kicked, in the strong under- 
water stroke that should carry him out across the pool 
to the surface.. The drive shot him forward above the 
bottom at such alarming speed that he backed water, 
and with a flashing sensation of surprise, he found him- 
self hanging suspended over nothingness. 

At the same moment he realized that he had really 
been under long enough to come up for. air, but that his 
lungs were not protesting in the least, he was getting 
along without man’s most intimate necessity in perfect 
comfort. 

He tried another powerful kick, and the bottom 
rushed up at him as though he were falling from a sky- 
scraper window. He hit it at an angle and bounced, 
tumbling head over heels, in a cloud of fine sand that 
obscured his vision. As it settled, with the larger flakes 
corkscrewing slowly past, he picked himself up and 
felt for bumps. 

There seemed to be nothing damaged. Standing on 
tiptoe, he launched out again and found himself once 
more soaring over the bottom in that strange wingless 
flight, sustained by the surrounding medium. It must 
be as graceful to watch as it was easy to perform. 



A silvery titter of laughter floated to him from 
above, right and rear. Barber spun round. 

“Kaja!” he cried. 

A slim, red-haired girl was drifting easily, twenty feet 
from him. She made a slight paddling motion and slid 
easily into position beside him. 

“Sorry, old dear,” she said, “but the name's Cola. 
Or Arvicola, if you want to be formal, which I don't 
think. You do look so fonnie, swimming like that.” 
Even her voice had a trace of accent, like Kaja's, but 
what Barber caught was the insult to his swimming. 
He hated being ridiculous. 

“What’s the matter with my swimming ?” 

“For a frog your age ? About as elegant as a drown- 
ing beetle.” 

Barber raised an eyebrovy. Kaja had been like that, 
too — always with a note of jeering banter, as though 
nothing life had to offer were worth the taking. “Did 
you say a frog?” 

“Yes, froggie.” She laughed again. 

Barber looked down. “First time I ever heard of a 
frog with hair on his chest,” he remarked practically. 

“Gahn.” The derisive word had the note of the Lon- 
don streets, and then her voice turned ladylike again. 
“You froggies aren't veddy clever, are you? And no 
wonder, coming out of eggs.” 



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UNKNOWN WORLDS 



Barber remained good-humored. “All right, then, 
I’m a frog, you newt.” 

Her eyes— they were green eyes — seemed to snap. 
‘Til thank you to be civil. After all, we voles belong to 
the higher orders, as though you didn’t know.” 

“Oh, yes. And I suppose you were a baroness once. 
Isn’t that usual with water rats?” 

There was another and harder snap to her eyes. “Lis- 
ten,” she said, “I don’t know why I take the trouble to 
stay here and be insulted, and I won’t, either, if you 
carry on that way. The next time you call me a water 
rat—” / 

“I’m sorry,” said Barber, and was. “I didn’t mean 
to insult you. I was just , carrying on your joke about 
frogs and — er, voles.” 

“Joke !” She laughed aloud, her head came forward 
and a pair of green eyes searched his. “Poor frog, I 
see now. You’re new, and don’t know the Laws of the 
Pool yet. Come with me.” 

A warm hand gave his a tug, and she shot off, slant- 
ing upward. She was half concealed in a dimness that - 
began in the middle distance before Barber whipped up 
his muscles to start after her, and for the first few 
strokes he followed a receding pale blob. But he was 
pleased to note that once started, he gained fast, and by 
the time they reached the silvery; rippling overhead he 
was up with her. 

Barber scrambled out of the water on all fours. He 
half turned to where he expected his lovely companion 
to be and opened his mouth to say, “You see — ” 

A deep, reverberating croak was all that came out. 

Barber made a frantic effort to stand up, and fell for- 
ward on his chin. Or rather, on his lower lip. He had 
no chin. 

He looked down and saw a pair of thick, stubby arms, 
covered with speckled skin. He was a frog, all right. 

A few feet away a rodent of about his. own size sat on 
the edge of the pool, her wide, luminous eyes and 
sharply chiseled features bearing the same subhuman 
resemblance to Kaja that an ape often has to an Irish- ' 
man. What color its fur was he could not tell, for the 
picture registered by his widely diverging eyes was one 
of blacks, whites and grays. He was color-blind. 

' The vole studied him for a moment with bright^ 
amused eyes, lifted a paw iii a beckoning motion, and 
slipped smoothly into the water. 

Barber humped himself around — awkwardly, because 
his limbs were not articulated for any wide variety of 
movement — and leaped after her. He had forgotten the 
power in his great jumping legs. Air whistled past as 
he soared far out over the water. He caught one 
glimpse of his own reflection, bruised by surface rip- 
ples, with great jeweled eyes, stubby arms spread, web- 
footed hindlegs trailing back,' and then came down in a 
tremendous belly whopper. 

* The red-haired girl was floating lazily beside him in 
the medium that seemed more normal than air. “Wiped 
your eye that time, old thing,” she jeered. “You frog- 
gies are so clever. Really, you know, you should take 



the strong, silent and handsome line, with a figure like 
that.” 

Barber looked at himself. To the’ eye he was again 
the man who had dived from under the poplar. No, 
he was a better man, for all the ominous imperfections 
of his arrival in Fairyland had vanished, including the 
stump wings. 

“Uh-huh,” he said. humbly. ^“Look here, is there 
some place where we can talk? You said something 
about the Laws of the Pool, and I really don’t know* 
anything about them. I’d be awfully obliged—” 

“Poor stupid froggie. Come on, then.” She turned, 
and he followed her down an invisible slope that ended 
at a group of gigantic roots which sprang from the bot- 
tom totwist in again. Cola stretched herself along one 
of them with an arm bent behind her neck, and com- 
fortably wiggled her toes. “The Laws of the Pool are 
these,” she half-chanted, “To reverence by day the gods 
to which we pray — 

“Beg pardon,” interrupted Barber, “but isn’t that a 
sort of catechism you’re supposed to learn ? Because 
I’m on a mission and I hope — that is, I may not stay 
here long, so most of it wouldn’t be much use to me.” 
The eyes widened and she lifted her head to gaze at 
him again. “Oh, re-ahlly,” with a galling note of in- 
credulity. “A froggie with a mission ! For Sir La- 
comar, I presume?” 

“No. For King Oberori, if you must know.” 

“The Father of the Gods ? Don’t try to come it over 
me, froggie.” 

. “What do you mean, Father of the Gods? He’s no 
different from you or.me.” 

“Oh, why do you have to be. so stupid ! Didn’t I just 
take you to the surface? But wait, you’re new. Listen, 
poor foolish froggie ; the gods can walk in air and not 
change. Though- I don’t believe that tradition about 
them punishing evildoers by catching them and heating 
them. " Not half. They jolly well do take some of us 
away, but I think it’s mostly those they like and want to 
translate to their own sphere. They took Rana the 
other day, and she never did anything wrong in her 
life. It would be wonderful to be made into a God.” 
“Oh. Isn’t there any way it can happen without be- 
ing taken from the pool ?” 

“Only when the redbeard comes. That’s part of the 
Laws of the Pool, you know : 

" When the redbeard comes again , 

Then shall fairies turn to men — ” 

* / 

She sang it to the same tune Malacea had used when 
she disappeared into the forest, then broke off suddenly 
and became practical : • 

“What about the other Laws, froggie? Want them 
or no? I haven’t all day.” 

“My name’s not froggie; it’s Fred Barber. And I’d 
be awfully obliged if you could tell me one or two things. 
Perhaps I could learn more that way. For instance, 
I’m hunting for a wand that belongs to^Queen Titania. 
It was stolen from me. Have you any idea where it 



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41 



could be ?” If she laughed at him again, he was ready 
to give up hope. 

But she didn’t. “That mission again, frog — Fred?” 
she said, with a bantering air that carried no sting, and 
frowned thought. “I re-ahlly don’t know unless . , . 
unless—” 

“Go on.” 

“Come closer,” said Cola. 

He did so and leaned over to catch the words she was 
barely whispering : “Unless the Low One has it. They 
say he gets everything sooner or later. Oh!” She put 
her hands to her face. “Perhaps I've done the forbidden 
thing just talking about Him, and the Gods will punish 
me. I don’t know why I did — ” 

“Have you ever seen him ?” 

“Please, don’t.” Little lines of strain and tragedy set 
in the vole’s delicate face. She went on, so low he could 
hardly hear : “If he really has the wand of the Mother 
of Gods, there’s no limit to what he can do.” 

“Where does he live?” 

She said: “You don’t want to go there, Fred. No- 
body does.” 

“Yes I do. If he’s got that wand, I’m going to getjt.” 
“What a brave froggie!” But her voice was shaky. 
“You couldn’t get it. You couldn't do anything. Please, 
Fred, listen to me.” 

“Then you won’t tell me.” 

“No.” 

He stood up. How like Kaja she was! They had 
quarreled this way a dozen times, but every time he 
yielded she had despised him for her very victory. That 
was why — “O. K., young lady,” he said, “then I'll 
have to ask somebody else.” 

“You’re not really going?” 

“Right this minute.” 

“But Fred — ” The green eyes were desperate, and 
then her expression changed. “All right, then, go! 
You don't even know the Laws, you silly helpless frog! 
YouTl get what's coming to you, and I hope you do!” 
“I’ll find someone to tell me about them.” 

“Who? There’s only old Sir Lacomar, the mutton- 
headed old pot, and he’s so busy watching the mussels 
he won’t even speak to you.” 

Further argument seemed useless. Barber poised to 
take off, then felt the old tug Kaja always brought to 
his heartstrings, the old fascination that would never 
quite let him play the game to win.'" He turned. “If I 
stay,” he said, “will you — ” 

“No ! I never want to see you again, you . . . you 
frog!” 

As Barber kicked himself" away and soared easily 
through the water, she was suddenly shaken with sobs. 

XII. 

Barber kept quite close to the bank for a distance 
that seemed like a couple of miles but was probably 
much less. At this point he saw something moving 
down and to the left in the murky distance. As he ap- 



proached, it resolved itself into a man, pulling a crude 
hand plow across the bottom. 

The man glanced up at Barber, dropped his plow, 
snatched at a huge shield that hung down his back by 
a strap around his neck, flopped himself down and 
pulled the shield over him. 

“Hey!” said Barber, lighting beside the shield. It 
remained motionless. 

Barber sat down to wait. This was most unlikely to 
be anything but one of the mussels. 

In due time the shield shifted a trifle. An eye peeked 
out and was followed by a head. The head was appar- 
ently satisfied, for the mussel heaved the shield up and 
himself after it. “Thought you was a trout,” he re- 
.marked by way of apology. He was stocky, muscular, . 
stoop-shouldered, with high cheekbones and a dead- 
white skin, hairless as a fish. 

Barber said : “Hello. My name’s Barber.” 

“Call me Joe,” said the mussel. 

“Nice little farm you have here.” 

“O. K.,” said the mussel. “I got a farm. So what?” 
“Nothing. I just wondered if you were one of Sir 
Lacomar’s people.” 

Joe spat, the spittle drifting off to dissolution. He 
jerked a thumb toward the. river bank. “Awright. I 
work for -Lacomar. An* I think he’s a jerk, a lousy 
slave driver. So what?” 

“Nothing. I was looking for someone else. Can you 
tell me where the Low One lives?” 

The mussel stuck his head forward. “Smart guy, 
huh? You frogs are all smart -guys.” 

“Why? Is he coming this way?” 

“Me, I wouldn’t know. I just plow.” 

“Would it make any difference to you if he did?” 
“Prob’ly not.” Barber knew the mussel was not sure 
whether he was lying or not. “You get rid of one boss, 
you get another. It’s all part of the system. Skip it, 
Mac, skip it.” 

Barber persisted: “Aren’t you afraid of what’ll hap- 
pen if the Low One comes ?” 

“Not ’specially.” He lied. Even without the spe- 
cial sense he had acquired in Fairyland Barber could 
have detected the undercurrent of fear. So did Joe, the 
mussel, and rushed on into explanation : “The system’s 
all wrong, see? It’s gotta be put through the wringer 
before we get a right break and maybe he’s the only guy 
can do it.” 

“Isn’t it against the Laws of the Pool to talk the way 
you have about Sir Lacomar and the Low One? What 
if I told on you? Though, of course, I won’t if you 
give me a little information.” Barber rather hated to 
do it, but he had to find out. 

“So, you’re a snitch, an agent provocateur? My 
word against yours, funny face. Gwan, now, beat it, 
before I dust you off, you goon.” The mussel slung his 
shield over his back and glumly set off, dragging his 
plow. 

Barber soared up and looked around. There w p ere 
two or three other mussels in sight, each stonily pulling 



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at a plow, but their expressions promised a reception 
no less surly than that he had received from Joe, and he 
headed toward the bank. 

' Sure enough, there was where it began to slope up, a 
circular tower of rough stones. On the top of this 
tower, with his feet hanging down, sat a bulbous, ruddy- 
faced man. He was^nearly bald, with prominent, china- 
blue eyes and a handlebar mustache. 

Barber swam for the top of the tower and hung sus- 
pended. “Hello,” he said. 

“Hello, froggie,” said the ruddy man. 

“The name's Barber.” 

“Barber, eh? Relative of the barbels? Good fellas, 
stout fighters. They bear azure and argent, barry-wavy 
of six. What’s your arms? Wait, I forget ; frogs aren’t 
armigerous. ✓All poets ; no fight in ’em.” 

“Mind if I sit awhile?” ’ 

“Not at 'all, old chap. Saw one of your musical rela- 
tives the other day — what was his name ? Hylas. 
Thought his singing very nice, though I don’t pretend 
to understand such things; Soldiers don’t get much 
time.” 

Barber sat down on the parapet. He noted that a 
pile of plate armors lay behind the big man, “You’re Sir 
Lacomar, aren’t you?” he asked. 

“Right.” 

“Miss Arvicola. suggested I look you up.” 

“Oh, you know Cola? Splendid girl.” Sir La- 
comar held out a large red hand to be shaken. “Bit wild 
and free with her tongue. Don’t know that I blame her, 
though, seeing the devil of a time she’s had with You- 
know-who. Glad I’ve been able to do a favor or two for 
her.” 

The audience was friendly but the matter had better 
be approached gradually. Barber asked for local news; 

Sir Lacomar said: “A few things, here and there. 
The usual. Trout made a raid from one of the tribu- 
taries last week. Got poor old Krebitz, but we routed 
’em handsomely.” 

“Oh. One of your fellow-crawfish ?” 

“Naturally., 7 Splendid chap; one of the Astak fam- 
ily, who bear argent a blood-ax gules. Very old line, 
but he was a younger son and had to difference it. I 
remember the time Krebitz and Sir Karkata and I drove 
a whole tribe of bullheads from the Muddy Pool? They 
were lined up like this, y ’see”— he illustrated with a 
string of pebbles — “when we took ’em in the flank and 
then, Santiago for the red and white ! I say, that was a 
real fight. I lost an arm.” 

Barber looked at Sir Lacomar ’s two muscular arms.^ 

“Came off near the shoulder,” Lacomar went on, 
without noticing, “and that’s always a bad business. 
Had to go into retreat for months while I was growing 
the new one. Don’t know who’ll take the war cry and 
the profit after Krebitz ; young Cambarus, most likely. 
He’s the old man’s sister’s grandson. But an unlicked 
whelp — an unlicked whelp; never been blooded, and 
he has no real right to be Warden of the Inner March, 
because that doesn’t pass in the female line. I suppose 



Scudo will put in his claim and then You-know-who 
will want to arbitrate.” 

“Are you people going to let him?” 

“Hah ! Not without putting up the standard and 
giving Him the battle of His life. That’s His way of 
getting a foot in the door. Did it with the trout in the 
West Reach, you know. Not that anyone minded what 
happened to that crew of damned pirates. Served ’em 
right.”. 

“Didn’t they fight ?” 

“Tried. But they were disorganized, d’you see, arid 
had no proper weapons. Not like us. Besides, the Gods 
took their chief, Christy, just as the attack started. 
They’re always -just.” 

“Perhaps,” said Barber, “they were less interested in 
Christy’s character than in his edibility.” 

Sir Lacomar’s face froze a trifle. * “Now, now, young 
fella, don’t blaspheme. All very well, to talk that way 
among your fellow-poets, and personally, I quite under- 
stand you have to be a little loose in your morals, keep 
up -the artist’s life, eh? Sowed a few wild oats myself, 
once. But it simply won’t do if you want to be taken up 
by the right people. Soft of thing a mussel would say.” 
“Thanks. I’ll watch it,” said Barber humbly. 
“They’re not very well brought up, are they?” 

The. knight snorted. “Wouldn’t do ’em any good if 
they were. Education, my boy, is something for which 
the masses .are not fitted. Like trying to make a sword 
out of a piece of wood ;' must have a bit of the right stuff 
first. What they need is a spot of discipline. Now, 
mind you’ —he shook a finger under Barber’s nose — 
“I’ll grant What’s-his-name is no gentleman, and He 
gave little Cola a pretty thin time of it, but you must 
admit He does know how to make His own people look 
sharp. He’ll turn them into something yet, mark my 
word. Wouldn’t do my mussels any harm to have a. bit 
of that treatment, the ungrateful beggars.” 

The crawfish-knight was actually- puffing in his indig- 
nation and Barber judged it prudent to change the sub- 
ject. “You know,” he said, “I’m on rather a serious 
mission as it happens. I’m looking for a piece of prop- 
erty that belongs to the Mother of the Gods, arid I’ve 
been led to believe it might be in Whoozis’ possession. 
Could you suggest how I might go 'about recovering 
it?” ^ ‘ 

Sir Lacomar frowned. “Don’t know about that, my 
boy. I hardly think You-know-who would violate prop- 
erty rights. Not His style; too big for that sort of 
thing, if, you understand.” 

“All the same I’d like to look into it. Where does 
Thingumbob keep himself?” ’ 

“Nobody knows but Cola, and she doesn’t tell. You 
might ask the leeches. They’re subjects of His.” 
“Where do I find them ?” 

“Upstream a way, where a tributary comes in from 
the right bank.” 

“Well, I think I’ll go see. Good-by and thanks.” 
Barber poised on the edge of the tower to take off. 
“Bye, old man; and ’ware fish. Oh, by the way, I’d 



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43 



be grateful if you'd look into His methods a little. In- 
terested in finding out how He achieves such order.” 

As Barber swam upstream, a vague general malaise 
told him, more through instinct than reason, that he 
needed another breath- of air. He slid easily upward 
and his eyes broke surface into that dead, black-and- 
white world which faded into a blur at any distance. 
His eye caught the fleeting movement of a shadow on 
the bottom as he propelled himself through the atmos- 
phere — hydrosphere — with easy, powerful strokes, and 
it occurred to him that his froggishness had made him 
not too ill-adapted to this new environment. Compare 
it with the world above, he told himself smugly. 

“Good morning! Good afternoon! Good evening!” 
called a voice. Barber looked down to find himself just 
moving past the entrance of a tributary so hidden in 
reeds that he might have missed it altogether but for the 
sound. He banked and planed down beside the curious- 
looking individual who had called out. Like the mus- 
sels, he was innocent of hair. Forehead and chin re- 
ceded from a sharp-nosed, vacuous face whose mouth 
was set in a mechanical grin ; there was a nice, suntan 
brown around the grin, but whenever the individual 
moved it became evident that his back was green, a 
sharp dividing line running down arms and ribs. 

A limp boneless hand was thrust into Barber's. “Wel- 
come to Hirudia!” said the individual, with energy. 
“Welcome to the land of order and plenty !” 

XIII. 

Barber said: “That sounds very pleasant. Can you 
tell me where I can find the leeches ? Unless you’re one 
of them.” 

“Of course I’m a leech, and proud of it!” Green-back 
whistled sharply, and from among the reed columns was 
joined by three more, bearing to him the same madden- 
ing resemblance that Chinese have for each other. All 
bowed. “Visitors are welcome to Hirudia, sir!’ We 
are honored to escort you — an unforgettable experi- 
ence.” 

The last phrase was a trifle ambiguous, and Barber 
found the welcome a disturbing parody of that he had 
received in the Kobold Hills. “Well, I don’t know that 
I want to go that far,” he said. “Perhaps you could 
give me the information I want.” 

“Certainly, sir. It would give us the greatest pleas- 
ure.” 

“Very well. Can you tell me where the Low One 
lives ?” 

“We’re very sorry, indeed, sir, but we are not allowed 
to discuss political matters. There are certain regula- 
tions, as I’m sure you’ll understand. But if you would 
care to step into Hirudia, the Boss could inform you. 
The Boss knows everything.” 

“Who is your Boss?” 

“Why, he’s our father and mother ! It was the Boss 
who rescued us from weakness and disorganization, and 
co-ordinated us into our present state of order and 



progress. He keeps us safe from the depredations of 
the trout, and protects us from the encirclement of the 
crawfish. A wonderful person! So modest and in- 
telligent! We’d do anything for the Boss.” 

There was something not too reassuring about this 
avowal, the more so since Barber’s lie-detecting sense 
gave him no intimation that the leeches were lying, 
fie hoped the Boss was as good-natured as he seemed 
to be admired. In any case, the leeches were under- 
sized, flabby creatures, visibly weaponless. If it came 
to another Kobold Cavern difficulty, he could handle a 
dozen of them — -and he had here an advantage he had 
never held there. He could leap up; swim away at a 
speed he was certain the leeches could not match. 

A sense of confidence in his own powers enveloped 
him as he followed the first leech, with the other three 
behind. The leader chattered continuously over his 
shoulder. “Hirudia has become a changed place since 
our Boss arrived. You wouldn’t recognize it. Every- 
thing systematic, the work done so easily and efficiently. 
The rest of the world will some day learn to appreciate 
us, whom they have neglected. We cannot remain for- 
ever hemmed in among the reeds.” 

“Hm-m-m,” said Barber. “And what’s your per- 
sonal part in this, if I may ask?” 

“Me? Oh, I have leisure.” 

“You have leisure?” 

“Certainly. Take the mussels, for instance. They 
live in one of the old-fashioned, competitive communi- 
ties, where economic pressure forces everyone to end- 
less and hopeless labor.” He rattled this off like a 
train of cars going over a switch, then paused and 
added proudly : “Our Boss assigns certain of us to the 
duty of having leisure. We lake it outside the city, 
where passers-by can see us and know the lies that are 
told about our beautiful land for what they are. That 
is social justice.” 

“I should think you’d get bored,” said Barber. 

“Bored? Oh, no! Boredom is a product of the 
class system and social disintegration. One never gets 
bored in Hirudia. It would be disloyalty to the achieve- 
ments of our Boss.” 

The answer was glib as ever and the tone unchanged, 
but a red light burned within Barber’s mind, signify- 
ing “lie.” 

They wound through alleys of tall reed trunks, like 
the pillars of Karnak, till they reached a wall which 
stretched up and sidewise to the limit of vision. The 
leading leech whistled, up scale and down, and a sec- 
tion of the wall sprang open without visible agency. 
Behind it was another wall, with a narrow slit through 
which an eye scrutinized them suspiciously before this 
wall, too, opened, but in a different place. Beyond it 
the guiding leech whistled again, another tune, before 
a third wall — -and then came another and another and 
another, alternately guarded by eye and ear, till Barber 
lost count. 

A last wall opened to reveal an immense plaza where 
reed trunks grew from the bottom, hut in strict geo- 



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metrical rows with open spaces between. Many more 
leeches were in sight, all alike as eggs/ and all furiously 
busy. Just, to the left of the gate a group of three were 
building a narrow tower of bricks. One brought the 
bricks from a pile, a second sat at the top of the tower, 
hauling them up in a basket, while the third laid the 
bricks. Barber observed that the tower was not really 
a tower, but a solid, square monolith without openings 
or exterior features. 

“What’s that for?” he asked his guide. 

“I don’t know, sir, but it has social importance or 
it would not /have been ordered by our Boss. In en- 
lightened ages, all the public works have social impor- 
tance.” 

Barber glanced at him sharply. “The purpose is 
what I was trying to find out,” he observed. “May I 
ask the workers?” 

The four leeches drew apart and consulted, whisper, 
whisper again, and .their leader came back. . “Unlike 
the decadent feudalisms, Hirudia has nothing to hide. 
We shall be glad to have you ask any worker anything.” 

The next time the brick carrier appeared with his 
hod, Barber inquired: “Beg pardon, but could you tell 
me what this brick thing is ?” 

The leech leaned his hod against the tower and began 
heaving bricks into the basket at a furious rate, whip- 
ping out a word, or two at a time between heaves : 
“Cultural — object, sir — ordered by — the Boss.” 

Barber’s four guides had clustered round to listen 
with an intentness that was almost painful, their heads 
stretched forward and cocked to one side. Now they 
exchanged smiles. 

“But why are you doing the work?”- persisted Bar- 
ber. 

“Because — I love — the Boss — would die— for him — 
we all— love him-^-excuse please.” The leech had emp- 
tied the hod and filled the basket, and now he trotted 
off. He had certainly lied ; never had Barber’s new 
sixth sense given him a clearer warning. But never, 
either, had there been a more bewilderingly complete 
lack of use for the knowledge. . He decided he had been 
mistaken about the resemblance to the* Kobolds. At 
least that lot had been enjoying themselves. 

Barber said: “I’d like very much to see more of 
your city, but this is more of a business trip than a 
visit for me. When can I see your Boss?” 

“We’re taking you to him,” said one of the guides. 
At this end of the plaza the reed columns were spaced 
wider, and through them there became visible build- 
ings of a cyclopean architecture, flat, fat and squatty. 
They came to a halt, while one of the leeches went into 
a blocky structure. 

In a surprisingly short time he was back. “The Boss 
is holding an important conference. Will the gentle- 
man come with us to the place of attendance?” 

“What’s that?” demanded Barber, his suspicions now 
unappeasably aroused. 

“The place where gentlemen who wish to see the 



Boss wait,” purred the leech. “In Hirudia everything 
is done systematically.” 

“How long do they have to wait?” 

“Very little time.” (Lie.) “Every comfort will be 
at your disposal” (Lie)' “and you may leave to con- 
duct other business whenever you wish.” (Lie.) 

, “Sorry,” said Barber. “Convey my respects to" your 
Boss and say that I regretted not having seen him, but 
I had business that couldn’t wait. Which is the quick- 
est way out of here?” 

“Oh!” said all four leeches together. “You don’t 
want to leave Hirudia!- You haven’t seen half of it! 
You want to come with us to the place of attendance!” 
“No,” said Barber. “I know what I want, and that 
is to get out of here. Will you please — ” 




The leeches interrupted : “Sir, it is contrary to regu- 
lations and good sense for anyone to leave Hirudia 
until he fully understands it.” “You cannot understand 
beautiful Hirudia in a. few minutes.” “Perhaps he’s 
socially underdeveloped.” “Needs instruction.” 

Barber pointed at random. He barked: “"“Is that 
the way out?” 

“No,” said a leech. Barber knew it was a lie, and 
set off in the direction indicated. The leeches followed 
him, yammering that he was being impulsive instead 
of reasonable ; that he didn’t want to leave Hirudia ; 
that he hadn’t seen — 

Other leeches swarmed out of the buildings and 
joined the procession till there were dozens of them 



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around and beside him, all talking at once. One worked 
up courage enough to grab Barber’s arm. He shook the 
flaccid hand off angrily. The clamor grew louder. 

“You can’t get away, sir!” they cried. “Why try?” 
“Anything is better than having trouble and people get- 
ting hurt, isn’t it?” “Honestly, we’re nice fellows, not 
so different from you ; why not join us ?” “When you 
really understand us, you won’t want to leave.” “Don’t 
cause a commotion, sir, please! It’s so uncivilized.” 
“Here’s a fair warning — if you provoke us to the use 
of force it will be all your own fault.” 

Oh, to ^ hell with this babble, thought Barber. He 
could still swim. He flexed his muscles and took off, 
rising over the leeches’ heads and the featureless pedi- 
ments of their buildings. A powerful leg kick sent him 
in the direction where he hoped the exit was, cursing 
himself for never being able to remember turns. 

The leeches were coming along behind, all right, with 
an undulating stroke, swimming fast, though not so 
fast as he was. 

Something went bong , bong, slowly and with deci- 
sion. More leeches appeared, swarming up from* all 
directions out of the boxlike buildings. Barber dodged 
round a tower that reared itself above the rest, and 
found two right in his path, vacuous mouths open, arms 
spread to catch him. He gave another leg stroke and 
at the same moment swung at the nearer ; fist met jaw 
with a soulful violence, and he felt the flimsy bones 
crumble. “Left hook!” he shouted for no reason as 
the other leech dodged, wrapped itself around his leg 
and (began to chew his calf. A kick flung it loose ; be- 
neath him legions of leeches were streaming up with 
outstretched arms, while the two he had disposed of 
drifted away, belly up. 

Yet that brief delay had given those ahead time to 
get past his level, and now as Barber looked, he per- 
ceived he was the center of a sphere of leeches. They 
were closing in with evident reluctance, but closing. 
Where was the exit? The sphere seemed denser at 
one side ; that was probably it ; they would concentrate 
to keep him in. He charged in that direction. One 
leech, braver than the rest, stood straight across his 
path. He butted it amidships, and from the tail of his 
eye saw it turn belly up ashe kicked and punched his 
way through the soft, clutching things. 

They gave ; he sped through, dodged scattered single 
leeches still floating up, and found himself over the 
great plaza. A few foreshortened forms were visible 
below, one or two swimming toward him, but for the 
most part it was empty. ’ He slid across it, outdistanc- 
ing pursuit here in the open, feeling free at last — until 
he saw the reason. 

All up and down, the great wall was a solid mass of 
leeches. He dived toward the base of the wall where 
the gate was. They gave way before his rush. No 
gate ; the wall loomed smooth as a mirror, and around 
him on every side were the leeches in a hemisphere, 
millions of them, blotting out the light with their bodies 
and inching in. 



Barber got his feet on the ground and his back to 
the wall and cocked his fists for a' last-ditch struggle. 
Might possibly discourage them. The leeches inched 
in, their array thickening as the radius of the sphere . 
lessened. Their hands spread, when the pressure of 
the wall against Barber’s shoulder blades ceased. 

He took two steps, threw a wild, menacing punch to 
drive the nearest back, and spun to face whatever 
leeches were coming from behind. 

It was not leeches ; or, rather, there were only two. 
Between them stood Arvicola, Sir Lacomar, and an- 
other knight, the last two clad from top to toe in armor. 

XIV. 

One of the newcomer leeches said: “What’s this? 
Most unseemly; just when we are bringing visitors to 
admire—” 

This was as far as he got. .Sir Lacomar crossed 
his arms in front of him, fists down, and jerked them 
up, whipping paired broadswords out of their sheaths. 
They hit the two leeches simultaneously, the blades 
shearing deep into soft bodies. The other knight’s 
visor came down clang; with a long, lashing blade he 
disemboweled a venturesome leech that dove at them 
from above. 

“Outside, you two!” roared Lacomar. “Weill cover 
the bloody retreat!” 

But the gates beyond were closed; and even as Bar- 
ber and Arvicola turned do that inmost gate, it slid 
smoothly into position behind them. The four were 
inside Hirudia and held there. 

Pressure from the constantly growing mass drove the 
nearest leeches, willy-nilly, in on the two knights. For 
a few seconds they moved in a web of whirling steel 
before the tide surged back amid squeals of panic fear. 

Lacomar glanced over his shoulder. “What are you 
waiting for, froggie ? Told you to push off.” 

“The gate’s closed,” said Barber. 

He gave a little leap, and his point just caught a dan- 
gling knee. “Ha, Santiago! Open it, froggie.” 

“Can’t. Don’t know how.” 

The other knight boomed something that was lost in 
the recesses of his helmet, turned, and ran his sword 
along the surface of the wall behind them, searching 
for the / joint. It gave the exquisite shriek of a pin. 
dragged across a windowpane, but wall and gate fitted 
solidly. He snapped up his visor. “The frog’s right,” 
he said. “No way out.” 

“Tell him to produce an idea,” said Lacomar, still 
facing out and up. “Frogs always' have ideas.” 

“Not this one or this time,” said Barber grimly. 

Arvicola said, with obvious effort: “There is an- . 

other way out. It — leads through His — ” 

“Good!” said Lacomar. “Show us the way, old gal.” 

“How about lending me one of those swords?” asked 
Barber. Lacomar looked surprised, then, doubtful. 
“Be damned !” said the other knight. “A fighting frog ! 
Here, take my anlace.” He fumbled at his belt and 
handed Barber an object like a clove, all metal and 



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about two feet long. It balanced well and had danger- 
ous-looking spikes around the head. 

“Swim or walk?” asked Barber. 

“Swim?” boomed the stranger knight, “Not in this 
hardware.” And Lacomar gave a dry chuckle. “Told 
you frogs always have ideas — usually wrong uns.” 

They set out, Lacomar leading with his two-sword 
sweep, Barber and the other knotting around. Arvicola. 
At the third step the leeches burst into a frantic gab- 
ble of shouts and squeals: “Give up?” “Come with' us 
— you'll be treated kindly!” “You’ve put ‘up enough 
resistance to make your showing — it will be all right ; 
we understand good fighters !” They gave no answer, 
and* after a minute or two of talking themselves into 
a fury, the creatures charged again. 

Barber was the" center of a circle of clutching arms 
and biting mouths. He laid about him furiously. Once 
Arvicola screamed and clung to his left arm ; he . exe- 
cuted a difficult pirouette with a leech clinging to his 
legs, and drove the anlace, once and repeat, into the 
faces of the pair who had her by the shoulders. They 
collapsed, floating away upward, but another dived in 
from behind to catch him by the throat and carry him 
to his knees. Here we go, he thought, but a voice, 
bellowed something like “Tambo !” and the pressure re- 
laxed. He scrambled up to see the stranger knight 
stand over him; the fight was ended for the moment, 
with fragments of leech bodies drifting dejectedly past 
through the water. Cola’s white skin bore several 
scratches, and the lines round her mouth were etched 
deep, but on Sir Lacomar’s face there was only a look 
of intense and joyous concentration. 

“Look sharp, - now,” he said, “before they get over 
that last bout. Which way, Cola?” 

The girl pointed, and they ducked through the row 
of pillars around the plaza, with the leeches forming a 
hemisphere of foes around them. Ahead was a flight 
of long and wide steps that might be the entrance to 
an impressive building had it not been hidden by the 
moving swarm of leeches. Sir Lacomar led the way. 
up, Arvicola touching him on the shoulder now and 
then to indicate a change of direction. 

The illumination dimmed suddenly, and Barber, 
looking up,, could see no more leeches right above. 

Something went bong once with the same deliberate 
and decisive note that had heralded the first attack on 
Barber.. There was a rumble ; some kind of gate or 
movable wall slid to and cut off all sight of their pur- 
suers. Now it was almost utterly dark, with the only 
light a faint bluish glow, whose source was high on a 
pair of cyclopean pillars. The source moved so that 
the light changed and threw curious shadows across 
their faces. “Ha !” barked the stranger knight. “We’ll 
make a night affair of it. Good thing there are few 
of us. Get in one another’s way.” His sword made a 
soughing sound as he- whipped it around his head, but 
Lacomar said.: “No, bad tactics, Acravis ; dark for the 
attack, but light for the approach,” and signed to . Arvi- 
cola. - 



She detached herself from the group and dived 
smoothly upward to one of the light sources. Barber 
saw her fumble briefly ; then light and vole together 
darted across to the other pillar, and in a moment she 
was back with a blue-glowing something in either hand. 

“Take this,” she said, and handed him something that 
squirmed so he almost dropped it. When he gripped 
hard its radiance brightened angrily, and he could 
make it out as a sort of super worm, the size of a frank- 
furter. 

“Hold it gently, Fred-froggie,” she whispered, “but 
tight enough so it doesn’t get away.” She shivered 
with obvious nervousness. 

Sir Lacomar swept out a powerful arm and drew 
their heads together. “You first, Acravis,” he coun- 
seled, “then Cola, Barber, and I’ll bring up the rear. 
Can get a better cut that way. Heavy metal in re- 
serve.” . ' 

Barber asked the question that had been worrying 
him. “How did, you two happen in at the right mo- 
ment?” 

Arvicola turned and touched his arm. “I — was afraid 
for you, so asked Sir Lacomarr — You’re such a bloody 
fool, Fred.” 

“If we get out of this — ” began Barber, and then 
stopped. He had intended promising to do anything 
she wanted, but what could a strictly temporary frog 
do for a water rat — if he was' a temporary frog. 

“Look here.” Lacomar’s voice rang out, suddenly 
loud, behind him. “Why were you afraid, my gal? 
This leech Boss isn’t — His Nibs, is he?” * 

The girl turned a stricken face. “Yes. Quiet. If 
he hears us, we die.” 

Acravis stumbled with a clank of metal and cursed 
in a low voice. Cola reached her light past him, and 
Barber caught a glimpse of a huge helical staircase, 
going down, down. “Let your light dim,” she mur- 
mured, gripping his fingers and pulling them -back gen- 
tly. The worm lay quiescent ; in the pale glow he could 
only just see the back, of the girl’s head before him, only 
just hear Lacomar coming behind, moving with sur- 
prising quiet for all his armored bulk. 

Stairs. Barber had to feel with his toes for the edge 
of each next step. 

The girl reached back and touched his arm again, 
so unseen that it made him, start. Her other hand, 
with the worm, was pointing forward, just over 
Acravis’ shoulder, the faint glow reflecting from the 
side of his helmet. Barber vnoted that the knight no 
longer stood a level below, and sure enough, at the next 
step he found that the stair ended. They were in a 
passage. Cola kept one hand on his with the lightest 
of touches, the other guiding Acravis, and Barber, by 
reaching back, could just link with. Sir Lacomar in' the 
same fashion. There was a faint, dull clink from Laco- 
mar’s armor, echoed by another from the knight ahead. 
Then he stopped. - 

The girl whirled round, soundless., and so suddenly 
that Barber was almost overbalanced, her lips against 



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THE LAND OF UNREASON 



47 



his cheek. “Won't hurt you for once, old thing," she 
breathed voicelessly. “We may — never — again," and 
her lips sought his and clung to them for a brief, thrill- 
ing, perilous moment. There was a snorting chuckle 
from Lacomar * behind, no louder than a snore. 

Ahead, the wall was a big and solid door which 
moved noiselessly at Cola’s light push. No light in- 
side. The floor, soft and squeezy between Barber’s 
toes, was obscenely like walking on something’s huge 
tongue. 

One step — two, three, four, five, six, and he lost 
count. Had something moved in the blackness ahead? 
No — yes; Acravis apparently caught it, too, for he 
stumbled slightly, pulled back and bumped the girl, 
sending her caroming into Barber’s left arm and shoul- 
der. The sausagelike light worm was almost knocked 
from his grasp ; he recovered it with violent effort and 
gripped the thing hard. Its light pealed forth in that 
black place like the sudden blare of a pipe organ. 

“No!" came Arvicola’s frantic stage whisper. “It is 
forbidden!" But in the flickering moment before the 
glow faded, Barber had just time to see what it was 
had moved. 

It was his own reflection in a big mirror; and be- 
neath that mirror on a little shelf lay Titania’s crook- 
handled wand. 

He released the worm, which went slithering off into 
the water, back and forth, and snatched for the wand. 
As his hand touched it, the glow from Arvicola’s light 
just permitted him to notice what he had not seen be- 
fore — some lettering, so deeply engrailed into the glass 
as to be part of its structure. He shoved his face close 
and read : 

On the pathway you trace 
The face that you face 
Is the median place. 

“Come — oh, quick!" said the vole’s voice close in 
his ear; her hand gripped his wrist urgently. The 
thought struck him that here was another of those 
mysterious shrines like that in the Kobold caves. He 
pulled loose, reaching for the mirror with the tip of the 
wand. 

A violent electric shock ran up his arm and all 
through him. Before he could analyze it there was a 
clank of armor. . He caught the flickering reflection of 
Acravis’ blade, heard him pant with effort once. Then 
he vanished. In the place where he had been, in the 
glow of the swimming worm, was a new, deeper dark- 
ness ; a shapeless something that almost filled that side 
of the chamber, with two expressionless eyes that re-^ 
fleeted. 

At that same instant there came to Barber’s ears a 
deafening gurgle of water ; stinging wetness in his eyes 
and nostrils, crushing pressure on his chest. He saw 
only vaguely that Arvicola was flashing past, heard her 
shout, “Fred — oh, Fred !" in a voice that trailed off into 
an agonized scream as the blackness wrapped round 
her. He tried to swing the anlace, opened his mouth 
to shout, found it suddenly filled with water and him- 



self strangling, choking, desperate for air; struck out 
frantically, and felt himself rising, up-^up, toward a 
pinpoint of light above. The last glimpse was of Sir 
Lacomar, hewing away two-handed in the direction of 
those lidless eyes, and then he was swimming. 

His head broke surface. He tried to take a deep 
breath and burst into a violent spasm of coughing that 
brought up a pint of water before he got, at long last, 
his precious gulp of air. Too weak to do more than 
dog paddle, he propelled himself feebly toward the 
shore. 

The bright moon of Fairyland was above, picking 
out around him a little river that wound among tree- 
lined banks. The scene was cousin-german to that he 
had left, how long ago? — for the 'dive that had turned 
him into a frog. He was no frog now. As a frog you 
did not choke in water; you could really swim. No; 
frog, man, or whatever he was, he could forget that 
half-formed thought of diving back to Arvicola’s rescue. 
He had gone through another metamorphosis, a shap- 
ing, as these Fairylanders called it. There was no turn- 
ing back ever. 

Something was attached to his back, hampering him 
grievously. His knee bumped bottom, and he almost 
sprawled, but managed to crawl the rest of the way, 
dripping. He was surprised; as he touched dry earth 
to find he was still holding Titania’s wand. He almost 
collapsed, but the thing attached to his back brought 
him up and made him look over his shoulder. 

The bumps that had been on his back at Oberon’s 
palace and had grown so astonishingly in the Kobold 
Caves had sprouted full. He had a well-developed pair 
of wings, springing from the lower ends of his shoulder 
blades. And the effort to stretch one of them out for 
inspection told him that he also possessed the neces- 
sary structure of bone and muscle to work them. The 
effort ended in a gasp as the wings stood fully spread 
and revealed. 

They were bat wings. 

XV. 

The wand was still clutched in his hand. For a^ 
moment or two he gazed at it, only half comprehending 
its import in the wave of revulsion and self-hatred that 
swept over him. Bat wings ; that explained it. He had 
turned, or turned himself, into some kind of willy-nilly 
devil, condemned to bring evil to everyone he touched. 

For that was the only possible explanation of the 
chain of disasters that followed his actions. If it had 
not been for his willful insistence on venturing to Hiru- 
dia, Arvicola might have lived out her carefree exist- 
ence. And the doughty but dim-witted crawfish knights 
— they might have come through then, but for his care- 
lessness with the light. He thought again of the girl’s 
appeal for help, which he had so ill answered, and for 
one wild moment contemplated diving into the pool 
again. Dead- leeches were afloat on its surface, unpleas- 
antly breaking the moonlight ripple. No; down there 
he would be a man again, and they crawfish and leech 



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and vole. He had gone through the metamorphosis, 
was a God to the water world now, and like most Gods, 
of limited and negative powers, without capacity for 
helping those he liked. One could only carry on to- 
ward disaster for the other inhabitants of this unrea- 
sonable world. He thought of Noah Fawcett and his 
declining stock of iron tools ; had brought the kobolds 
to ruin, too, though they probably deserved it. Even 
the wood sprite, Malacea— 

‘'I knew, I knew,” said a voice. “Who dares say I 
cannot see tomorrow? Even beneath that great beard 
I J knew.” 

Barber jumped a foot, sat down on the tails of his 
own wings, jumped up again >to flap them, and the 
next moment found himself scrambling and clinging 
among the branches overhead. That sugary accent 
could belong only to the girl he had just been think- 
ing about. He looked down ; sure enough, there she 
was, arms outstretched and gazing at him. He wrapped 
the wings about him, suddenly conscious of the nudity 
to which he had given no attention while a frog, and 
hunched on the limb like a gargoyle. 

She trilled laughter at him, then in a breath turned 
serious: “I crave pardon,” she cried, “for forgetting 

that laughter makes you mortals angry. -If it be within' 
your rules of conduct to forgive the fault without pen- 
alty * I beg you, do; if not, Fll gladly bear .whatever 
you put upon pie.” 

A reply seemed in order. “I don't want to put any- 
thing on you,” said Barber sensibly. “I want my 
clothes,, to put on me.” • 

Her eyes narrowed calculatingly, and she flung up 
one hand. “Stupid that I am to forget mortals are 
under no laws compelling conduct but those they im- 
pose on themselves! Yet how am I to serve you in 
this ? I have not hid them.” 

“No, but — ” began Barber, and stopped, embarrassed 
at showing embarrassment before this child of nature. 

“But they're near and you'd be solitary to put them 
on— is that it? Poor mortal, I suppose that is your 
modesty, clinging like a remnant of the world, you came 
from. Discard it; we are each other's fate, you and I, 
arid in this land of Fairy, hiding from such fate is pre- 
sumption.” 

She was certainly speaking the truth, but Barber 
hoped only the truth as she understood it.. The thought 
of this full-bosomed and cloying wench after Cola made 
him shudder. “All the same, I want my clothes,” he 
said obstinately. 

She spun aroftnd, moving her hands in and out; 
then, fixing like a pointer dog, she took a dozen steps 
and stooped at a clump of fern. She lifted something 
triumphantly — Barber could make out the flash of color 
that would be his clothes — but the next instant stag- 
gered back and dropped it with a little shriek. “The 
metal! It burns! O, lovely mortal, help me!” 

It would have taken an ox to be impervious to that 
appeal. Barber spread his wings and parachuted down 
beside her, pulling her away from contact with the 



sword which had caused the trouble. The cry was no 
phony on Malacca's part; a six-inch gash with singed 
edges showed in the filmy material of her dress, and be- v-- 
neath it, the forearm bore a long, angry welt. 

As Barber looked at it, she pushed herself up to a 
sitting posture and flung the other arm around his neck.x v * 
“Damn it!” he said, trying to push her away. “Ma- 
lacea, /you’re a woman of one idea.” 

“And that idea old. But not stale ; they say. the world 
still has a use for it. 

"Come live with me and be my love, 

And we will all the pleasures prove — ” 

; : 

“I might be glad to if I didn’t have other business 
and weren't afraid your boy friend, the Plum, might 
find us together again.” 

\ “Oh, you need fear him no longer.” 

“I know it. I ate some of his fruit.” 

“He has escaped that spell. He gave your wand to 
some wizard of the pool — the Base One, the Under 
One, I am not sure of his name — and received an en- 
chantment in exchange, to free him from the power 
of those who had eaten his fruit. I meant rather than 
you can handle the metal. With that” — she pointed 
at the sword and he felt her shudder slightly — “at the 
door of my place, he can never enter. We can love 
night long and fearless.” 

“And in the day you'd have to go to your tree. It 
isn't logical.” 

“What does that mean? A magic word?” 

“No, it means according to the laws of consistent 
reasoning. Things equal to the same thing are equal 
to each other, nothing can be both true and false, and . 
two and two make four.” 

“A mortal word; and like most such, not true.” 

“Oh, but it is.” . Barber disengaged himself and 
picked up four pebbles, two in each. hand. “Look,” 
he said. “Two !” and then opened the other 7 hand to 
show the others. “Two!” He clapped the two hands 
together and opened them again. “Four !” 

“No,” said Malacea. 

Barber looked .and gaped. His opened hands held 
five pebbles. 

It might have been an accident, or she might have 
dropped one in. He tossed away the extra stone, shut 
both hands resolutely, and clapped them together again. 

“Now will you admit there are four?” he demanded 
belligerently. 

“No,” , said Malacea. She was right. There were 
eight pebbles, but this time the tree sprite did not 
laugh. 

“My love and fate,” she said, laying a hand on"his 
arm, “let me beg you, once for all, to lay aside, those 
stiff mortal thoughts. There's no living in a country, 
or a world, but by its laws. There have been mortals 
here that could not. They wander like sad shadows 
tiir some accident pitches them back to their sty, or 
turn to mere walking vegetables, like one who keeps 
a farm near here and whom you have doubtless seen. 
But this time it is more than a little important, and 



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not to me alone, though you are my very dear ; for we 
of the forest can often see hidden things, and I swear 
by my life that of all who have^ever come here, you are 
the nearest to fulfilling the prophecy. If you but hold 
to the true line.” 

“ What prophecy ? And what is the true line ?” 

“Why, the prophecy of the redbeard that shall mean 
life and grace to us all ! Look, you have the wand and 
the redbeard and the power of metal! And for the 
true line, thaLis no more than to hold straight to the 
task in the face of all impediments.” 

Barber's hand flew to his chin. He was aware that 
his beard had grown since his experience in the water 
world, but the touch showed him how surprisingly it 
had spread into the great chest mattress of a nineteenth 
century patriarch, and it was red, all right, the end 
strands showing an unbelievable brick color. 

“But look here,” he said, “haven't you just furnished 
me with the best possible argument against staying with 
you ? How can I stick to the task, whatever it is, and 
go off with you, too?” 

Her eyes suddenly stared into vacancy, and her voice 
went to a whisper. “It's true,” she said slowly, “true. 
I might have known that to set my love on one of the 
great ones would be to share his hard rule of achieve- 
ment before enjoyment. Go, then.” She gave him 
a little push with the flat of her hand, and Barber felt 
as though he had struck a child. “Go and tell your 
new love that Malacea, the dryad, sends her hate. No, 
wait. At least, you shall kiss my arm that you burned 
with your metal and make it well.” 

She held it out, and Barber obediently kissed the 
place where the burn was now swelling to blister. 
Somewhat to his surprise, it immediately became as 
smooth — and as semitransparent — as the other arm. 

He turned to his clothes and began to pull them on. 
Malacea had turned her back to him resolutely, and 
did not look round, even when he was, with some diffi- 
culty, buttoning the jacket around the bases of his 
wings. As he stood on tiptoe before leaping away into 
flight he could see that her head had sunk forward and 
her shoulders* were shaken with sobs. 

With each powerful stroke his big new pectoral 
muscles bulged out the front of his jacket. He cleared 
the trees easily and straightened away in level flight 
across the forest through which he had toiled on foot. 
Bat wings might not be pretty, but they were certainly 
efficient about getting one over territory. Barber did 
a loop and a couple of barrel rolls just for the hell of 
it, and zoomed along, savoring the pleasure of this new 
physical motion, all his depression fled. So he was near 
to fulfilling the prophecy of the redbeard, was he? 
What prophecy? Everyone seemed to know of it; 
there was that tune Malacea and then Arvicola had 
sung — devilish odd, now that he thought of it, that 
denizens of such different worlds should have the same 
air and same words. There had been something about 
a redbeard, too. on that big tomb in the graveless 



graveyard, the one that bore the same strange heraldic 
design as the door in the Kobold Caverns. 

It all tied together somehow and somewhere. Bar- 
ber experienced the maddening sense that comes just 
before the climax of a good detective story, of having 
all the clues .laitLOut before him, but being unable to 
interpret them into a meaningful pattern. Perhaps they 
never would' make sense in this impossible cosmos. He 
thought of the pebbles, and, clapping his wings behind 
his back in irritation, did a fifteen-foot drop. 

Long, black, striding shadows beneath hinted of 
moonset, and he guessed it must be near dawn, till he' 
remembered Malacca's counsel to forget his imported 
habits of thought. But what time was it, then — or 
since time appeared a matter of no consequence, which 
way lay Oberon's palace? He flapped and soared 
easily — the motion was no more difficult than walking 
— while he considered the question. . A thin haze of 
cirrus diluted the moonlight above him; neither Faw- 
cett's farm nor the Kobold Hills were visible. 

But wasn't there something moving up there to his 
right? He spiraled toward it. 

, As he approached, the vision resolved itself into a 
small female sprite sailing nonchalantly along on gauzy 
wings. 

“Beg pardon,” Barber called up, “could you — ” 
“Why, 'tis the king's new changeling!” she cried. 
“And alate — not to mention barbed like a centaur. 
Well met! What's toward?” 

“Why, I'd like to find my way to the palace — ” 
“There to cozen more fays with unmeant gambits in 
the game of love, I'll be bound.” She laughed at him 
and did a couple of butterfly flipflops. 

“No — Say, aren't you the girl who was in Oberon's 
apartment when Titania came home?” 

“Nay, not I; 'twas no more than one of our band — 
Idalia. But if you think to hold matters secret in 
Fairyland, Sir Changeling, let me undeceive you. The 
very trees are sib to all that stirs. How else would I 
know that you're but newly come from the embrace 
of the apple sprite, Malacea?” 

Barber wondered if his flush was visible in the moon- 
light and on the wing. “I assure you, I — ” 

“Come, sir, no hoity-toity manners; the whole mat- 
ter's exposed. The world knows that your conscience 
is clear enough — which swinish commodity you seem 
to value highly, being mortal — but I cannot say as much 
for your courtesy.” 

“But look here, do you mean to tell me that every- 
one knows everything that happens to everyone else ?” 
“To be sure, witling, insofar as they are interested 
enough to discover.” 

“Then Queen Titania knew all the time that Oberon 
had this Idalia at the palace?” 

“She were marvelously less than the Queen's Re- 
splendency did she not.” 

“Then why didn’t she make a fuss when she came 
in? And why was it necessary for me to get Idalia 
out of there so fast? Sounds like Dinkelspiel to me.” 
“Soft, soft, you’d choke the goose to death to make 



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UNKNOWN WORLDS 



him cough eggs from ’s crop. Why, as to take your 
first question first, since it holds the nub of the matter 
—because she could not ; the laws of conduct forbade, 
there being.no trace of Cousin Idalia within the apart- 
ment.” 

“Oh.” Barber digested that for a moment, flying 
along beside her, and reflecting that he had heard some- 
thing of the kind before. “Very convenient laws. Who 
makes them?” 

The fay .went off into a long peal of laughter, soft 
in the un-echoing sky. “Makes 'em? Why, child, 
they're laws natural and were made with the world — 
Stay, I do forget you’re of mortal kindred, who live 
by other rules. Tell' me, is it good fact, as some say, 
that in the land you came from all the dumb world 
follows an immutable procession, as the sun arriving’ 
punctually on hour or the. seed producing nought but 
the tree that bore it?” 

“Why, certainly.”.. 

“Even so the laws of conduct. When I laughed but 
now had you laughed with me, we must have spent 
half the night tumbling and playing awing through 
these light airs. For we have too much in us of the light 
' elements, Fire and Air, to be restrained from joy by 
the troubles of the earth bound court.” 

“What’s wrong with the court?” * 

“What’s not ? The worst and heaviest of all the shap- 
ings; all’s confusion, and the King’s Radiance fears 
some deadly doom, /And so, farewell; I’m for a. new 
master.” . , - - 

9 7 

“Wait a second !” cried Barber. “I’d like to get to 
the palace, and I’d like still more to see you again. 
How do I go about it?” * 

“Ask the wind— or your Malacea.” And. off she 
went, at a speed he could not match. 

^ XVI. ~ 

That left the question 'of which direction he should 
take pretty much in the air, Barber thought, wishing 
there were someone around to appreciate the pun. If 
the fay were bound away from the court, it would not 
do to follow her ; and from what he had learned of the 
singular geography of Fairyland, it seemed probable 
that if he followed her backtrack he would reach some 
. very interesting place, but not the one; he was looking 
for. He must think in terms of his environment — “lay 
aside those stiff mortal thoughts,” as Malacea had ad- 
vised. * What would a Fairylander do? 

Use the wand, he answered himself, letting it slide 
from his hand. It fell, not straight down, but sliding 
and twisting down an invisible gradient like a falling 
leaf, as though trying to hold -.itself in* one direction, 
Barber did a power-dive in time to catch it before it 
reached the treetops and slanted . up 'again; holding the 
^loop of the wand loosely in a crooked forefinger. “All 
right, ’ he ordered it, “suppose you show me the way.” 

The wand thrust itself out, flatly horizontal, and 
Barber flew in the direction indicated. Beneath him, 



the forest began to thin out into clumps and groves, 
then wore away into a rolling plain, with only a tree- 
here and there, black in the waxing light. Now out- 
croppings of rock . began to jut .through the grass of 
the plain, growing in size and frequency till Barber 
found himself flying low over a rugged crag country, 
.which presently sprang up in peaks as angular as the 
mountains of the moon. Not a sign of the smooth park 
land and*monstrous potted trees that he remembered. 

, Off ahead the sky was lightening. The country be- 
low, now all gorge and precipice, threw up a tor with 
scarred sides across his line of flight. On its top, black 
against the Prussian-blue gloom that precedes sunrise, 
stood something too regular in outline to be the work 
of nature: a castle^ — ugly and squat in outline, with 
thick, unpierced curtain walls and disproportionately 
small towers at the angles, like a prison. A Dracula 
castle — no, that would have the fascination of the 
weird, something Gothic out of Aubrey Beardsley, while 
this was a$ hideous as a factory town. The wand led 
him straight to it, and as he planed in for a landing at 
the gate he saw Oberon’s blue-and-gold oriflamme hang- 
ing listlessly from a staff. 

, The gate was heavy wood, bound with metal, in a 
finicking and tasteless design. It was locked ; there was 
no answer either to Barber’s shout or his hammerings. 
When he thought of the wand again and applied it, the 
gate creaked grudgingly just wide enough to let him 
enter. He found himself in a courtyard with a little 
dry grass sticking up through cobbles, and the first 
thing he noticed was the slobbering hobgoblin with 
overlarge knee - joints who had admitted him. The 
second was Oberon, Titania, and Gosh, coming down 
the steps of the donjon. 

* , As they crossed the bailey Barber had time to note 
that if he had changed during his journey, there was 
still more pronounced a changed in them, and all for 
the worse. Oberon looked older and balder, with a 
hunched and gnarled appearance hard to put a name 
to; one of those things you were sure you saw till you 
looked straight at it, when it vanished. Titania’s pale 
glory of complexion had become a dead-white, the ruf- 
fles at her neck were a little askew, and the gold 
broidery of her sleeves tarnished. The good-natured 
jmpishness of Gosh’s face had given way to a fixed 
malignant sneer, as though he' could not wait to grow 
up into a ruffian and a killer. 

, And as with master, so with man. The train that 
followed the royal pair was an assemblage of crapulous 
horrors, not a winged fairy in the crew. Some limped, 

- .some had Gargantuan hands or chins, some tails, and 
all deformities. Barber recognized Imponens with dif- 
ficulty; the acrobatic philosopher was hobbling along" 
pn a cane; with the corners of his mouth drawn down, 
jand only just' lifted his foot out of the . way as a huge 
.centipede scuttled from under the feet of another of 
•fhe crew. - 

The king stretched out his neck and scrooged up his 
eyes, peering at Barber as though he could not see well. 
“No, tell me not,” he said. “Memory’s as good as ever, 



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a faculty independent of mutations, which does not de- 
cay. Ha, I have it — you’re the latest changeling, Bar- 
ber! 0 

“Just back from the Kobold Hills, at your service, 
and reporting complete success.” He managed a salute 
\with the wand. Around the king, the court burst into 
squeaks and murmurs, and Oberon almost smiled. 

“ WelJ^done, then ; you have our favor. Success were 
needed at this pass, sorely needed. Even a tiny gobbet 
goes far to restore our joy.” 

“Joy is but the absence of pain,” croaked Imponens, 
but Barber had already begun with : “Is this your new 
palace ?” 

“Aye,” said Oberon, “though we 'had not the plan- 
ping of’t. Come, we’ll change tales and wring each 
other’s vitals.” He reached out to take Barber’s arm 
and lead him toward the frowning keep, then drew back. 
“You have the metal about you. Leave it by the gate, 
Barber fellow ; ’twill at least be some barrier to the 
bugs and bewitchings that now do plague us.” 

Barber put his gword just inside the gate as di- 
rected and followed the king/ Within the castle their 
footsteps went echoing through great passages of un- 
dressed stone, taller than those of the Kobold Caverns, 
but almost as dank. There were spider webs every- 
where, and insects crawling about. When they came 
to a great hall whose walls bore faded and moldering 
tapestries, Oberon dismissed the court with a word and 
led on, up a circular staircase to the battlements. The 
dawn light was growing and a chill wind had come up 



with it, that wrenched at their bodies as Barber told 
his story. 

* “So she saw in you the destined redbeard,” said 
Oberon when he had finished. . “ Tis a thing to think 
on; must ask Imponens, whose counsel in such affairs 
is never less than good, though somewhat vinegared 
with pessimism of late. Yet it could be, and being 
solve the sorrows of — ” 

Something hit Barber violently in the back, tumbling 
him right through one of the crenels in the battlement. 
He had one glimpse of young Gosh’s snarling face, 
heard Oberon’s startled shout, and the wind was whis- 
tled past as the toothlike rocks below swam up to re- 
ceive him. 

There was a heart-stopping instant of terror before 
Barber remembered and spread his wings. They bore ; 
he leveled out in a long, sweeping catenary, and beat 
his way back to the parapet. Oberon was trying to get 
at the boy, who was wrapping himself in Titania’s skirts 
for protection. Barber made a quick estimate of speed, 
distance, and windage, fluttered his wings twice for al- 
titude, and glided in. 

Gosh saw him coming and left his hiding place to 
,run. Barber swooped in and swung the wand with 
both hands like a bat, to bring it across the boy’s shoul- 
ders. If it broke every bone in the young imp’s body, 
he would be only too pleased. 

The wand met only the slightest resistance. Then 
Gosh was not there, and Barber, thrown off balance by 
,the strength of his own blow, swept into a stumbling 
landing. 







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52 UNKNOW N WORLDS 

“Whither went he?” cried Titania. “You villain, you 



puling thrip, if you've destroyed him, Fit — ” 

“You’ll do precisely nothing, madam,”* Oberon cut 
in. “An’ he were destroyed, ’twere a bad world rid of 
worse rubbish, but ’tis not so. There he stands, by 
power of the wand and ’s own character given his 
proper form at last.” 

He pointed to the battlement beside Titania. The 
others saw a crocodile about a foot and a half long, 
which opened its jaws to emit a faint “Urk!” and 
started across the paving at a brisk, clockworky wad- 
dle. 

Titania snatched up the reptile. “Poor Chandra!” • 
she said, contriving in some odd manner to be both 
pathetic and ridiculous without losing her queenliness. 
“Oh, I could smile to see them die that bring these 
shapings on us !” She coddled the thing in her arms 
like a baby, and Barber was surprised to see two big 
tears oozing from its eyes' along its scaly face. “I— ’ 
began Titania, when the memory of a legend clicked 
-in Barber’s brain. Absurd where he came from, it was 
probably true here. 

, “Drop it, quick!” he shouted. “It ? s going to bite!” 

Titania did not quite drop the crocodile, but as she 
jerked -it away its teeth met with a snap, half an inch 
from her nose. “Gramercy for your warning, philo- 
- .sophic Barber,” she said. 

Barber bowed: “If I may offer a suggestion to Your 
Resplendency, you can keep your little playmate very 
comfortable till he gets his shape back by putting him 
jn a pan with water and a rock he can crawl out on. 
Your Resplendency can feed him once or twice a week 
on chopped raw meat.” 

Titania gazed at him suspiciously for a moment, 
then said : “I’ll do it, straight.” She hurried for the 

stairs, holding her pet at arm’s length, with its legs 
.revolving, Oberon chuckled'; Barber somehow could 
jiot find her distress very funny. . 

But the king was plucking him by the sleeve. “We’ve 
matters of state to confer on,” he said. “Harkee, good 
Barber, I do count you a true man.” " • 

“I hope— ” 

“Tush, take it not amiss ; we’re surrounded'by treach- 
eries in these evil times. Why, the very cocking 
wenches play at Judas — Hold, where were we? I 
have’t ; these villain shapings — secret of statecraft is let 
.nought distract — ” His voice trailed off and he paced 
the paving, hands behind back, wagging his head to and 
fro. Then he turned and gripped Barber hard by both 
elbows. 

“I’m in some sort an usurper,” he declared fiercely, 
“Make the worst of it; say I seized the throne and the 
lady. She loved me true and I her; we mutually do 
.still, I swear it. ^Will you hold me the less for that?” 

“Why, no, of course, not,” said Barber, mystified, 
but supposing this was what he ought to reply. 

“Well, then, what would you? My lady’s gay and 
lives for pleasure in herself and those about her. Un- 



mortal world in its laws physical, save for slight changes 
such as lacking the power of iron. Look how yon bat 
.sails widdershins around that tower — another presage: 
of disaster!” He "flung out an arm to point, then 
turned to Barber again: 

“So it was all gaiety, high pleasure, and good con- 
.verse at court, but beyond ' it, misery — slayings and 
black magic, hideous things done, as you have traces 
..of among your own people. Is’t not so, you’ve heard 
.some tale how they met on a mountain with bloody 
;rites ?” 

“Like voodoo or the Walpurgis Night?” 

“Aye, and they’re good history of the black days ere 
.1 wedded Titania and ’stablished a new sovereignty. 
.But these anarchies and nightmares,- 1 put them down 
.with the strong arm — I. With the aid of Sylvester, 
and the giving of my heart’s best blood I made a great 
conjuring that may not be repeated ; set the laws funda- 
mental of this realm so that happiness should be our 
.constant companion.' ’Twas not enough; there are 
.those whose only happiness lies in their own aggran- 
dizement.” * 

He stopped and looked out across the waste of rock. 
The sun had reached the horizon now and was throw- 
ing level ruddy beams across pillar and buttress and 
spire, but it drew no answering fire from those heart- 
less cold pitches of frozen lava. They lay inert, high- 
lights and shadows alike gray and deadly. Barber 
cleared his throat. “Do you mean those laws of con- 
duct I’ve heard about? I wish — ” 

“Aye. Conduct. There’s the key — would you not 
say? Sylvester and I, we sublimated in a manner the 
.laws natural to these others, so that none could give 
joy, for example, without receiving it in turn — set a 
.rein on all furious passions. Mistake.” He turned and 
gripped Barber by the arm again. “Good Barber, will 
you make alliance with an old man and old king whose 
;web is near spun?” , ' / 

“What, me? Why? I thought I was working for 
you, sir. What — ” 

, “So, let it slip.” Oberon-passed a hand across -his 
forehead as though to brush something away. “I had 
not meant to ask you so early. Let it slip; my mind 
is all adossed. We’ll to bed and treat with Imponens 
'present, who can see deeper into a millstone than most.” 
He led the way to the stairs and whistled for a serv- 
ant. The one who came had the big head and pop eyes 
of an idiot, and teeth that hung over his lower lip. He 
breathed with his mouth, blowing little bubbles. 

The room to which. this creature led Barber was tall, 
but narrow, with a single high window and rusty damp 
streaks down the walls. The bed was hard, and Bar- 
ber, who had never tried to sleep in wings before, found 
such difficulty in arranging his limbs that he had no 
more than closed eyes when he was awakened by a 
strident “Krawk !” He looked up to see a big black 
bird on the. window sill with moonbeams, streaming 
past it. Somewhere below in the castle a bell was toll- 
ing 'with muffled, slow persistence. 

Barber’s head ached and his mouth held a taste like 



der ’her regiment we had a realm here like your own 

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the hangover from a three-day drunk, but there seemed 
little use in trying to sleep any more, as both bird and 
bell kept up their noise. He dressed in a foul mood. 
“Krawk!” said the bird as he handled each garment, 
cocking its head on one side and inspecting him. He 
thought of flying up and shooing it away, but the room 
was hardly wide enough for the spread of his wings. 
He compromised by yelling “Beat it!” and went down 
to the hall. 

Oberon and Titania were seated at breakfast as in 
that other hall, but there were no winged fairies visi- 
ble, and the correct frog footmen had disappeared. In- 
stead, there was a throng of the exaggerated people he 
had seen the night before ; they stumbled over one an- 
other trying ta serve the king and queen, and the bell 
in the background donged steadily. The king looked 
up at Barber's entrance. 

“A chair of pretense, ho! for Barber!” he called, and 
motioned to a place by his right at the table. It was 
forthcoming after a little commotion. Barber sat down 
to a breakfast whose flavor was not improved by the 
sight of a pair of cockroaches holding a conference in 
the center of the table. Oberon waited courteously 
enough till he pushed away his plate. 

“Now let’s to business,” the king said. “Here be 
deep matters. A weird lies on us — implacable, no es- 
cape within our” — his eye caught the cockroaches — - 
“within our — faugh ! what foulness ! Imponens, un- 
riddle this matter for our good cousin, Barber. What 
is’t we wish to say?” 

“Doubtless That we gave ourselves to delight while 
the enemy to strivings, Your Radiance. But ’twill not 
mend a broken bone to see where it’s fractured.” 

- “Pox on your counsel of despair. Are we dogs to 
lick in gratitude the punishing hand? No: we’re as 
foul as those that challenge this fair land an’ we not 
challenge them in turn.” 

“But, , Your Radiance, we lack the power- — ” Impo- 
nens began to protest, but Oberon cut him short. 

, “And have we not here one that possesses all means 
needful? Our Barber, our war duke and champion, 
who’ll not be bound by — ” 

Titania cleared her throat. “My lord,” she said, 
“you do but rant and wander from the purpose. Look, 
Barber, here’s what he would say, these witcheries my 
lord king put down when we were united, they have 
made a great resurgence.” 

Barber managed to get a word in edgewise. “Will 
you pardon me if I say I don’t understand? Who are 
you talking about? Who’s responsible for these trour 
bles ?” 

There was a silence. Titania and Oberon looked at 
each other, and it was the brownie philosopher who 
finally spoke : “You pose, Sir Barber, the question of 
the ages, one ineluctable. For if I answer in detail: 
the Kobolds, then you are well answered, since those 
cattle did grievously vex this realm in ancient days, 
and you yourself are but come from hindering a new 
vexation. Yet, ’twill not be the Kobolds, neither; for 



their two excursions are separated by so wide a gap 
as memory can barely bridge, and in that interval they 
have been the best of subjects and citizens, cheerful, 
apt to every task, and I make no doubt will be again, 
now that you have knocked down their high preten- 
sions. 

’ “Shall I say the fays, then, for deserting the court? 
Nay; they’re lighthearted aerial creatures who give 
and receive pleasure, will be a joy wherever the laws 
of Oberon run. 

“Those who bring these shapings on us? At the 
moment, my art tells me it may be those Princes of the 
Ice which erst were our good friends and well-wishers. 
Yet if they be destroyed their ambition will but pass to 
other hands and in the end be unconquerable. What 
boots it, then, to struggle — ” 

Titania rapped sharply on the table with her knife. 
“I’ll not hear such traitorous doctrine !” she cried. 
“Give him no thought, Barber; we live in today and 
not i’ the ages, whereas ’tis every philosopher’s maggot 
to imagine himself thinking for eternity. Here’s the 
present problem: someone, it may be those Princes of 
the Ice our lick-pudding counselor thinks, has found the 
gap in the laws that guard this land. By constitution 
its physical forms are somewhat unstable; well then, 
these enemies who seek to rule raise spells to produce 
shapings and still more, till our whole surrounding is 
gone hideous. Our joy fled with the fays who cannot 
bear such Tiglines s ; they hope to cramp us and drive us 
with unpalatable circumstance till we even break our 
own laws of conduct, the reign slip from our hands, 
which they hope to seize.” 

“And what if they did?” 

“Our death, perhaps ; but in any case the tempestuous 
anarch disorder which my very dear lord and king saved 
us from so long gone. This is what you must keep us 
from now, good Barber.” 

Fred Barber sat back in his chair of pretense and 
looked from king to queen. The picture was becoming 
clearer, but: 

“Why must it be me? What’s the matter with 
Oberon?” 

“My own cursed laws !” The king brought his fist 
down on the table. “They hold for all — no violences. 
Do I break ’em, I’ve let in the forbidden thing, we have 
the old days back. Yet here’s a scoundrelism will hear 
no argument but sharps.” 

“I may be awfully dense, but again, why pick on me ?” 

“Why you’re the redbeard ! You come of a hard 
race, have the iron I left out of my laws ; must do it in 
any case, and why not the sooner.” He sang, to the 
same tune Malacea and Cola had used : 

<• 

' “When the redbeard comes again. 

Then shall fairies tarn to men . 

When he touches the three places 
He shall knoiv them by their faces ” 

As Oberon chanted the absurd verse a sense of ex- 
citement invaded Barber. Once more he seemed on 
the edge of something he could not quite grasp, but now 



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it was something splendid and promising as the discov- ' 
ery of a new- world. Almost without realizing" what he 
was doing, he stood up and clapped the great wings 
together behind his back. All the people in the hall 
gave a shout; Oberon- and Titania stood up, too, and 
the king extended his hand : 

“Go, then, Barber. You are our stay and alliance as 
iron must cover and protect gold, however precious and 
desirable the latter be.” ' 

XVII. 

Yes, but go where? 

The exaltation lasted till he had reached the castle 
gate, picked up his sword; and was winging out across 
the sea of rock through clear moonlight. He had not 
thought of asking directions, and it occurred to him that 
it would have done no good to ask. The people of the 
court would have answered quite honestly that they did 
not know. It was useless to expect from them precision 
in any physical or material statement. 

Which way? 

He had begun by flying around the castle in an Archi- 
median spiral, ever-widening. Beneath, the tumbled 
rocks gave no sign of life, nothing that might be a 
guide. Even the distant horizon failed to show that 
gradation where the mountain-country broke down to 
the craggy moors over which, he had sailed the previous 
evening. He reflected that this would have sent him 
into sbmething like a panic a week before; .now it 
merely afforded some faint amusement as he sailed along 
on tireless wings, now and again experimenting with 
the subtle pleasure of gliding. 

A sharp hiss in the air . over his head caused him to 
look up. He had a glimpse of something large and 
black dropping on him out of the blue; then gathered 
himself for a powerful wing beat to carry him out 'of its 
way. In mid-stroke a terrific blow smote him, great 
curved talons dug through the back of his trunks, and 
came out with a rending of cloth as Barber put full 
power into his wing beat. 

He bahked, fumbling for the kobold sword, and trying 
to bring the attacker into vision... A hiss of feathers 
overhead accompanied by a second cry from the raven 
gave him momentary warning again, and he put strength 
into a drive forward and up. The change of pace threw 
his attacker more wildly * off, but something slashed 
down a calf muscle. As he felt his hose turn warm 
with blood another bank gave him a view of these at- 
tackers, now below and beating up toward him. 

They were giant black eagles, almost as big as he was, 
and a second glance showed him that each had two well- 
developed heads. - One of them was, in fact, snapping 
and striking with .one head at the raven which swooped 
over it, while the other head spied for direction. But it 
was only a glimpse ; the warning hiss sounded again and 
Barber jerked frantically sidewise to dodge the strike 
of a third eagle. The tip of a black wing caught him a 
dizzying blow on the side of the head, knocking off his 
plumed hat; 



He made a quick estimate of the distance between 
himself and the rocks, then threw himself on his back 
to see where these heraldic monstrosities were coming 
-from. At first he could make out nothing; then he 
spotted two more, almost exactly between him and the 
moon. One was diving, close enough to grow visibly in 
size as he watched, but not diving at him, for beneath 
the stroke Barber saw moon-reflection from the glossy 
black of another raven. - The bird avoided ; there was a 
flurry of motion as the. eagle checked and the two 
ramped against 'each other, their battle cries thinned by 
. distance. Then the second eagle half-folded its wings 
and came in on Barber. 

Two could play at that, game, he thought, flipping 
over into normal flying position and dropping for the 
.mountain crests. Wind whistled through his hair in 
ascending pitch. Behind he heard a high, piercing 
screech, the sound of a rusty hinge. It had a distinct 
warble; no doubt, thought Barber, the heterodyning 
effect of a. slight difference in pitch, between the two 
larynxes belonging to a single eagle. 

The top of a mountain grew at him, jagged and for- 
midable. He spread and leveled off, with the strain 
tearing at his pectoral muscles. The horrible thought 
came to him that he'd miscalculated, he'd crash, didn't 
1 have strength enough to pull out. of the dive. 

Then the mountaintop drove past. He was still going 
down, but down a slope, and a twig tip slashed across 
the back of his right- hand. At his hundred-mile-an- 
hour speed it stung like a whip and left a little line of 
emergent blood drops. 

A glance showed that the eagle above had pulled up 
sooner than himself and was now joined by one of those 
that had attacked at first. Far off, another was engaged 
with one of the friendly ravens and seemed to be win- 
ning, for the -smaller bird was only trying to beat off 
the attack and get away. Before he could make up his 
mind to do anything about it the two eagles above be- 
came three — five— six ; they tipped over and came plum- 
meting down at him with nerve^shattering screams. 

, Barber, cocking his head this way and that, dodged 
like the bat whose wings he bore. A claw , touched his 
cheek. He tacked frantically; a wing struck one of his 
own, half-numbing it and sending him tumbling. As 
he forced the painful member to pump a victory scream 
sounded from behind, probably over one of the ravens, 
he thought angrily, and put on speed. 

The eagles had shot past, low over the valley. Now 
they swirled up in a cloud and sorted themselves into a 
diagonal line, like geese. Three more swam up out of 
'nowhere and attached themselves to the end of the line, 
and they came toward him, all nine pairs of wings flap- 
ping in synchronism. v Their intention was obvious. 
With a jar Barber realized that those predatory double 
heads held brains enough for intelligent combination. 
One or two he could dodge, but nine, diving in quick 
succession, would get him sure. 

' He flew at utmost speed for a few moments, then 
came round in a sweeping circle to see whether they 



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would follow if he affected to give up the direction he 
had chosen. They did; the hostility was implacable 
then, related to his existence and not his movements. 
There was nothing to do but fight them. Remembering 
a quotation from Kipling to the effect that a savage 
attacked was much less dangerous than a savage at- 
tacking, he pivoted on easy wings and slanted upward, 
whipping out the sword. 

The eagle formation — another had joined it now — 
came up with him, holding the same strict alignment, 
but with the birds craning their doubled necks and 
screeching at each other, as though in perplexity. Bar- 
ber felt a momentary thrill of gratification. He sus- 
pected that although the monsters were capable of plan, 
they lacked mental flexibility, the capacity to meet an 
unforeseen situation. He could climb faster, too, with 
his wide wingspread and better balance ; he was past and 
gaining, the formation went a little uncertain, and he 
peeled off into an almost vertical drop. 

The sword arm came down with the added motion of 
his descent, taking one of them where wing joined body, 
and Barber shouted with delight as he felt the blade bite 
through. The eagle went spinning and screeching 
downward; Barber gave one swift wing stroke and 
brought his sword up backhand onto the neck of the 
next in line. One head flew .from the body, the other 
head squeaked and the eagle began to fly in a zany cir- 
cle. Another swing sent one tumbling in a tangle of 
feathers, and the formation broke up, eagles spreading 
in all directions. 

Barber pursued one, caught it and^ killed it with a 
blow. Kipling was right, and the things were practi- 
cally helpless against attack from above. He went into 
a long glide to gain distance, looking for, but seeing no 
sign of the ravens. They must have been finished off, 
poor birds. In the distance the formation he had 
broken up was gathering again, and more eagles were 
coming up, some to reinforce the shattered group, others 
to form a new one, which immediately began to climb. 

Barber drove for altitude, got above them, and dived 
in, killing several eagles. But the other formation 
climbed while he was about it and delivered a diving 
attack ; it took both sharp flying and quick sword work 
to get away unscathed. While he was about it, more 
eagles came up to join those already on hand ; there 
must be at least twenty-five or thirty not counting those 
he had got rid of. At this rate they would smother 
him with mere press of numbers long before the night 
was done, and he had no assurance that the confounded 
doubleheaders were not diurnal. 

Clearly, this counterattack in the air would get him 
nowhere in the long run, and equally clearly something 
better would have to be found soon. The eagles, he 
observed,^ all seemed to come from the same direction, 
and probably belonged to the forces of that mysterious 
enemy to whom Oberon had referred. Their sudden 
attack might be on general principles, due to original 
sin, but the way they had kept after* him even when he 
turned back did not look like it. Neither did their con- 



stant multiplication. More likely he was getting too 
close for comfort to that third place of the Fairyland 
prophecy. 

Too close for the enemy’s comfort. He recalled how 
his touch on the first of those places had put a stop to 
the kobolds’ antisocial activities, and wondered whether 
there had been any improvement in the tangled and 
difficult life of the pool since he touched the second. 
Below him forty-five or fifty double-headed eagles were 
circling and screaming, spreading to form a network 
which should be too wide and deep for penetration. He 
was so high now that the mountains beneath had lost 
relief and were spread like a flat picture map, with 
shadows and patches of green for coloring. 

Other eagles were coming to join those beneath him, 
their direction clearly marked from this height. He 
swooped down a thousand feet or so, and saw the latest 
comers circle around to join those gathering in a cloud 
6f wings behind him. In addition to the ability to com- 
bine efforts, they evidently possessed a good communi- 
cations system and had passed on word that he was too 
dangerous an opponent for single-handed attack. 

After a while no more eagles seemed to be coming. 
Barber circled, looking down, and perceived that he was 
over an exceptionally tall, prominent peak. His eye- 
sight seemed exceptionally good — probably another 
Fairyland gift, like the wings. Another circle ; behind, 
the eagles were spreading out in a widening crescent to 
shut him in, methodically and with no indication of 
haste. A single eagle came soaring up from the shadow 
of the peak ; Barber closed wings, dove and killed it be- 
fore it knew he was there, noticing as he did so that the 
shadow from which it had flown held a single spot of 
iridescent light. 

Toward this he flew; as he did so, the flock behind 
him burst into screams and began to .close, overhead as 
well as on all sides. But he held course and came to a 
landing on the ledge where the spot was. . 

It was a ball of some brownish but shiny substance, 
perhaps a yard in diameter. Barber tapped it with his 
sword and was instantly rewarded by a chorus of 
screams from the eagles above. The ball gave off a 
sharp, dry, wooden sound, and when he swung at it full 
arm, only moved slightly without breaking. It appeared 
to be attached to the ledge. 

The eagles overhead screamed again, and one swooped 
at Barber. He struck it down, a neat blow, right be- 
tween the paired necks. Another dove at him, and, as 
he dodged, crashed into the rocks and went tumbling a 
thousand feet down in a cloud of feathers. 

A sharp ping made Barber look around. The globe 
had vanished into a haze of golden particles. On the 
ledge where it had been, sat a new young eagle, shaking 
dampness from its feathers. It spied Barber and opened 
its beaks, but he took both heads off with a single sweep- 
ing stroke, and dodged another suicidal dash from above. 

On the spot where ball and then eagle had been was a 
circular hole in the ledge, about the size of a broomstick, 
with a smooth, shiny lip. As Barber watched, with 



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glances overhead, another sphere appeared at the mouth 
of. this hole and grew like a bubble. 

Two more eagles had died in attacks from above 
when this one reached the size of the first. Barber 
twice hit it with all his strength and no result. A mo- 
ment later it shattered. Barber killed the eagle it con- 
tained and kicked its carcass off the ledge ; a proceeding 
obviously futile, since a new egg began to grow immedi- ~ 
ately. The process appeared endless, and there was 
nothing to plug the hole with, the ledge as bare as a 
banker’s head, and as hard as his heart. 

Another eagle swooped from above, and as Barber . 
lowered his sword after cutting down the bird his elbow 
touched Titania’s wand, still stuck through his belt. 
The very thing ! When the next egg dissolved, he rap- 
idly slew the eagle it contained, reached over and, before 
the new bubble could come forth, rammed the wand in. 

It went home to a tight fit, and from within the* hole 
came a bubbling tumult like the cooking of a gigantic 
kettle. But no more balls appeared. 

The eagles above burst into such an .ear-splitting 
racket that Barber could hardly hear himself think, and 
all around him began diving at the cliff in witless frenzy. . 
Thump! thump! they landed, bounding off into the 
black depths below with flying feathers, utterly neglect- 
ing Barber in their furious desire for death; and soon 
there were no more eagles visible, on the ledge or in the 
sky. The tubelike orifice still gave forth^a sound of 
boiling. Barber did not quite dare to withdravy the 
wand. After a few minutes’ rest he hung his sword at 
his side and took to wing again. 

As he soared above the peak in now-empty air, he 
noted, something unseen before on the far horizon. Not . 
' a mountain nor a meadow, it was as tall as the former 
and wide as the latter, smooth and shining like the roc’s 
egg of Sindbad. Barber flew toward it. 

XVIII. 

The roc’s egg was ice. 

Fred Barber knew it long before he arrived at that 
glistening and translucent structure by the chill that, 
hung around it, though that chill — strangely, to his 
senses attuned to another world — brought no mist in 
the air and the great dome showed no sign of melting. 
“Princes of the Ice” Oberon had said, and this was 
doubtless their residence, the central seat of power of 
that enemy he was arrayed against 

Locked .in the heart of the icy dome, distorted by 
curvature and refraction, was something dark and 
shapeless. Barber lit near it and shivered for the first 
time in Fairyland in the constant current of cold air 
flowing outward. Whatever lay at the heart of that 
gelid bubble remained ineluctable, for practical purposes 
invisible, as he walked around, trying to peer in. 

Ice. If this were the last, it was also the hardest of 
his tasks, to try to make something of this outrageous 
glacier. There was no way of dealing with the damned 
thing, especially with the wand left behind to plug the 
hole of the eagle eggs. It was utterly silent, impassive, • 



remote, like death. Not for nothing had Dante had 
the last and most terrible of his infernal circles an icy 
one ; no wonder Oberon thought the princes of this place 
his ultimate and deadliest enemy. Barber himself began 
to experience a sense of depression, of utter futility such 
as he had seldom experienced. He would a dozen times 
rather have dealt with the tricky activity of the kobolds,. 
the treacherous violence of Hirudia or even endless, 
swarms of double-headed eagles. There seemed simply 
nothing he could do to those glasslike walls. 

Wait for day and the sun to melt it? It could not be 
long delayed, the moon was paling to its close, already 
the stars shone brighter: But no, thait held no promisie 
of success. The cold dome came down flush to the 
ground, with a thin rim of dry grass around it and be- 
yond that meadow, bespeaking the thought that this was 
no ice he knew but some unreasonable variety that did 
not melt in the sun. 

His teeth were chattering with cold. Perhaps the 
only way of penetration was the obvious one. He 
stepped up to the smooth surface at random and swung 
his sword. It bit deep; great fragments tinkled and 
clashed away with every stroke. The ice was soft or 
brittle or both. He marked out with his eye space 
enough to give him a good tunnel and fell to hewing, the 
work warming him. 

But as the shards broke out and fell away it became 
apparent that the ice was not homogeneous in quality, 
A large irregular lump at the heart of the area on which 
he .was working turned the edge of Barber’s blade while 
the material around it shattered and cascaded away. 
This adamantine lump was something over Barber’s 
own size, and as it took form beneath the undirected 
sculpture, of his sword it became apparent that it was 
about his own shape. 

With a crash of glasslike crystals, ice avalanched 
away from the lump, leaving it standing in the mouth of 
the shaft like a snowman in high relief. It was, in fact, 
exactly a snowman, or better, an iceman, of imposing 
stature, faceless under a domed glassy headgear, with a 
club over its shoulder. " 

And it began to move ; sluggishly with creaking ice 
sounds, detaching itself from the remaining matrix, 
shifting the club. 

Barber stumbled back in alarm, his feet skidding 
on the unmelted fragments beneath. His sword would 
not bite, and the wand was far away. 

But the creature apparently had no aggressive inten- 
tions. After one step it- became immobile in its former 
pose. The starshine shimmered on a film of water, flow- 
ing down from some unseen source over the surface and 
around the ice giant. It froze as it descended, and in a 
moment or two^the surface on which Barber had labored 
was' as smooth as ever. The air was cold. , 

Barber walked fifty paces, around the circle of the 
wall and began' chipping again. The ice broke away 
with the same ease, and as easily as 'before ^did an ice 
giant, complete with club, emerge. Once more the film 
of water flowed smoothly down and filled the wound. 



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. Barber stepped close and touched his hand to the cur- 
rent ; it was icy-cold and stung like brine in the wounds 
the twig had made. 

He stepped back, grimacing with pain and shaking off 
the shining drops. As he did so a couple of them fell on 
the rose in his buttonhole, the double rose he had 
plucked at the luchrupan’s tree. With a faint sissing 
sound they dissolved into steam. 

Barber stepped back to consider, and found that the 
ends of his now long red beard were covered with tiny 
particles of rime. Once more he experienced the baffling 
sense of standing at the edge of discovery, yet somehow 
lacking the clue that would unlock knowledge. Perhaps 
the key lay once more in Malacca’s injunction to leave 
his imported habits of thought for those that went with 
the environment. 

But what did that mean in the present case? As a 
devotee of the mathematically logical approach favored 
by the newer school of science, he set himself to examine 
the fundamental assumptions on which he had been 
working. The first thing that he discovered — somewhat 
to his own surprise — was that he had been accepting 
chance as causation. There was something wrong about 
this ; as wrong as his earlier assumption that because the 
formulas of this existence did not jibe with those he 
knew, the whole thing was utterly without logic or 
reason. 

Oberon, and. still more, Imponens, had given him a 
glimpse of a Fairyland ruled by laws as definite as any 
he knew, though of a different order. They related 
more to matters accepted figuratively or not accepted at 
all in the world he was accustomed to call “his.” Prob- 
ably astrology and numerology would be exact sciences 
here. Assuredly, he could reject the idea that mere 
chance had carried him to the encounters with Malacea 
or the kobolds or the world under the water. The 
monkeys would write Shakespeare before such a series 
could come about by accident. 

What he had to do was discover the chain of causa- 
tion and apply it to the present circumstance, shivering 
outside that dome of ice beneath a cold sky from which 
the moon had gone, and only faintly tinged with coming 
day. The three places. It had something to do with 
that ; and he was convinced that the third place lay be- 
fore him, hidden in that impassive hood of ice. Had the 
others anything in common ; was it possible to establish 
any series ? 

Apparently not. The first place lay in the heart of 
the hills and he had reached it by a toilsome journey on 
foot ; the second, under the pool, and he had attained it 
by a special adaptation or metamorphosis into a frog. 
Here was the third, which he hardly could have reached 
at all without this other' special adaptation of wings — 
Hold on a minute; had not that gauzy-winged fay he 
met in the skies said something about : “We have in us 
the light elements, Fire and Air ?” Here was series, the 
series of the Pythagorean elements — Earth for the first 
place, Water for the second ; he had vanquished Air in 
dealing with those double-headed eagles.. Fire would 
surely be the antidote to the ice that stood before him. 



It was at this point that Fred Barber remembered 
how the icy brine had hissed when it touched his rose. 
The finding of that flower could be no more chance than 
the other events of the series. 

Fred Barber plucked the rose from his coat and ad- 
vanced to the wall of ice, holding it in front of him. As 
far as his fingers could tell it was an ordinary blossom, 
but when he came near the ice there was a hiss and 
crackle, and water flowed down in a young torrent, well- 
ing out over the grass. A cloud of vapor rose from it. 

The rose melted a deep hemispherical pit in the face 
of the ice dome, and of the iceman who had been, there 
before there was no sign. Barber stepped into the cavity, 
holding his new weapon before him. Beneath his feet 
was slippery ice and around them gathered a runnel of 
coldly steaming water. A step at a time carried him 
forward into the tunnel he was melting, a passage out of 
dark into dark, with just the faintest shimmering of 
rainbow hues where the rising day behind shot a few 
beams through. All had a bluish cast, as though this 
were the permanent and natural color of that grim place. 

It must have taken half an hour to reach the dark core 
of that berg, and an uncontrollable fit of shivering had 
overtaken him, not entirely due to cold. His foot felt 
an edge; he bent, holding the rose downward, and 
melted a coating of ice from a granite step, immemori- 
ally ancient, and rutted deep with the pressure of many 
feet. Other steps rose beyond it, a flight down which 
the melting water cascaded, leading up to a monumental 
double door of bronze. 

When he had cleared the ice from it by use of the 
rose Barber perceived that the door bore a coat of arms 
— the same, with crowns and double-headed eagles that 
he had now seen twice before. But this time it was 
partly overlaid with a more recent plate in plain brass, 
into which lettering had been deeply incised. Barber 
bent to examine it in the tricky, pulsing light that came 
through the ice from the gathering day: 

This is the veritable Wa'rtburg. Let him enter who has a 
high heart and the four elemental spells ; but not unless he can 
bear the eyes of the Redbeard. 

There was something strange about that inscription, 
but not until he had already laid hand on the door to 
push it open did Barber realize that neither letters nor 
words had been English. They were old German, a 
language he did not know — or did he ? The building it- 
self had a curious mental atmosphere, as though it pos- 
sessed a memory of its own," independent of his, and 
were trying to communicate with him, tell him a great 
and happy secret. He pushed the door. 

It opened slowly, with a musical tinkle of unmelted 
ice from the hinges. He was in a hall, high, wide and 
deep, blue-dim at the far end, pale-blue along the high 
windows between the ‘dark uprights. A huge table ran 
its whole length, a table in white streaked stone that 
would be marble. At the near end a figure was seated 
with its back to Barber, in* a chair of horn, curiously 
mosaiced together. The figure was wearing a dark robe 



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UNKNOWN WORLDS . 



"and a tall, conical hat, dark-blue and sprinkled with 
stars. 

As Barber came level with him, he perceived this in- 
dividual was leaning forward with his elbows on the 
table and his chin cupped in -his hands. A beard lay oh 
the table ; the face above it was that of Imponens or any 
other learned doctor in. philosophy, with wide-open eyes 
staring straight ahead. But he did not answer when 
Barber spoke and shook his shoulder, and the body be- 
neath the robe felt cold. 

Barber shuddered slightly and went on down the hall, 
wondering whether he heard a noise behind him. To- 
ward the far end his eyes focused on the figures there. 
For there were many — a whole row of boys standing 
against the farther wall, clad in medieval page costumes 
and with hair to their shoulders, staring stiffly before 
them like the man in the conical hat. Barber noted that 
the line had one gap ; but what caught and held his eye" 
was the figure in front' of -the gap/ - 

For this figure also occupied a seat at the table, but ‘ 
the seat was a great carved ivory throne, sweeping up 
in tall lines to carved double-headed eagles on the pil- 
lars at the back. The man himself was leaned forward 
in an attitude of sleep, his forehead on one arm and chin 
on the table, and a tall crown of mingled gold and iron, 
set with jewels, had rolled from his head. All around 
face and arm lay a great mat of beard, and deeper still, 
seeming to pass right into the substance of the table it- 
self ; and even in that dimness Barber could see that it 
was red. 

A thrill of passionate expectancy, as though he were 
on the threshold of something at once splendid and ter- 
rible, ran through him. . He stepped to the table 'and 
saw, just beyond the extended fingers, a brass plate let 
into its top. (Was that a sound again behind him?) 
Straining his eyes Barber bent close and read : 

He shall gain the triple grace 
Who reaches this as the third place. 

Clomp . 

Barber whirled. Icemen, faceless and menacing, 
their clubs held aloft, were flooding through the door- 
way by which he had entered. They deployed into a 
line across the hall, both sides of the table, and came 
marching down with ice-creaking steps, ponderous and 
irresistible. 

, Barber snatched for the kobold sword, remembered 
it would not bite on their hardness. The rose? He 
was surprised to discover it was no longer in his hand ; 
he* must have 'dropped it at the door or when he shook 
the shoulder of that figure at the other end of the table. 
For a moment panic jarred through him; then he per- 
ceived that the terrible regiment bearing down on hinr 
had a gap in its line, the gap caused by the table itself. 

He leaped for the table top, and in the very moment 
of the leap saw a figure at the door behind the icemen ; 
the single page boy missing from the line. The lad’s 
high voice cried : “Time is ! The ravens fly no more ! ” 

- r THE 



and then Barber’s foot touched the brazen plate that was 
the third place. 

It~seemed to go right through ; he had a sensation of 
floating disembodied into nothingness. There was a 
rending crash ; the ice without the castle split and shiv- 
ered away, and a bright, new golden sun came streaming 
in all the*windows of that hall, and — 

Frederick B arbor ossa, that was Fred Barber, gripped 
the arms of the ivory throne and stood upright. There *. 
was a tug at his chin; the marble table split and its 
halves toppled to side and side with a booming crash. 

“Where is the enemy?” he demanded, and looked 
around on icemen that were icemen no longer, but 
knights and barons in shining mail with swords in hand 
and a few drops of water shining like jewels on them in 
the new light. 

But that philosopher from the lower end of the table 
stretched his arms and answered : 

“Lord, there is no- enemy, nor ever was, within this 
place. For the enemy but shifts from body to body, be- 
ing impalpable; and being put down in one form, seeks 
a new. and must again be dealt with . 1 ’Twas in one such 
embodiment that he put you into slumber, ere Titania’s 
reign began; the wizard whose form he took is long 
moldered; but he, being a force natural,. is still amongst 
us. ’Twas he with whom you dealt on your spirit’s late 
journey in mortal masque. ^ ^ . 

“This is the end, lord, for which you were called from 
sleep, ^tha't- you might bring the strong power of the iron 
to the alliance of King Oberon’s realm, which is of law. 
Neither can stand without the other ; and now I counsel 
you that you send straitly to him, since the enemy in a 
new guise draws near his borders.” 

“Let it be done,” said Barbarossa. 

In the annals of Fairyland the story of that alliance 
is written— how Barbarossa and his knights journeyed 
to the Avest and won a great battle among .the sea crags 
against an invasion of Rakshas, hideous yellow things 
that iived like ghouls. They were not the last of such 
invaders, for the enemy is ubiquitous. But Barbarossa 
deals hardly with them all ; and there is an end of shap- 
ings and evil enchantments in that land. These have no 
power against the iron. 

Yet there are whispers and mystery about the great , 
red-bearded king; for it has been observed that when he 
takes a new love, whether from among the fays or the 
other people of Fairy, he tells her tales of how he spent 
some thirty years among the mortals. Some hold that 
these are merely things that he makes up ; for who could 
believe in a world of such wild unreason that its people 
must blow each other to bits in order to command obedi- 
ence to their wills? Some hold, on the other hand-, that 
these tales, are nothing but the disturbed dreams that 
Barbarossa dreamed while lying asleep under the ice, in 
the Wartburg castle with the ravens circling around. 
Yet, it is observable that there is a certain wild con- 
sistency in the king's dreams and his acts ; for among his 
loves he has never taken one from the apple dryads. 

END. 



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illustrated by Edd Cartier 



Some of you will be disappointed because this edi- 
torial completely fills today’s issue of the Argus . But I 
feel it is more important than news, this article. And 
some of the stores may be annoyed because there is no 
room for their ads, but a newspaper’s first duty is to its 
readers. 

You will not see me any more, so I take this means 
to impress on your minds one fact : \ 

Dr. Evan Scot is not a son of Satan, 

You must believe that. I am going to give you the 
i-easons, and you will see. Then, when I finish, and 
after Mother Grace has run off enough copies for our 
subscribers, we will clean up the press, have a couple 



of drinks, and step through the door into the black 
emptiness which has been there for three days, blot- 
ting all light, waiting for us. 

, ‘Til tell you about that blackness in due time. First, 
I want to explain that the rumor about Dr. Scot would 
never have been started if Mother Grace had attended 
to his job. 

That was last week, the day after graduation exer- 
cises at the high school. Mother Grace came into my 
office from the composing room and flung several sheets 
of copy on my desk. 

“I'll s-set no copy for a s-son of Satan,” he said. 
He stutters a little when he is excited. 



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UNKNOWN WORLDS 



I put my feet down and looked at the copy. It was 
an account of the exercises, and included a few excerpts 
from Dr. .Scot's commencement address. I then looked 
at Mother Grace. 

He was a pink balj of indignation, his white hair al- 
most standing out straight, his blue eyes flickering, and 
his round chin outthrust like a shelf. v 

I didn't say anything. I simply went out to the com- 
posing room and took a look at the jug of whiskey that 
caused Judith to name him “Mother.” She said he cra- 
dled it like a lost child on Saturday' nights. The jug 
was untouched, as it had been for the last month, since 
Mother went on the wagon because of the research 
which engaged his free time. 

Back in my office, I frowned down at him. “What's 
it all about, Mother?” 

“Evan Scot is the spawn of Lucifer. Fm damned 
if I’ll set any type that's got his name in it." 

“Dr, Scof is one-of our most prominent citizens." 

“That's what I mean, Buck.” 

“You’re not making sense. Explain yourself." 

“I don't dare, Buck. I .like you. - Just edit Scot's 
name out, of the story and we’ll forget the matter." 

“We can’t leave Scot's name out of the story. He 
was one of the highlights. The school board would be 
on our necks. So would Judith. She'd want to know 
why we messed up her copy. What would you tell 
her?" . . .. 

“I wouldn't tell her anything, Buck. Same as I 
won’t tell you." 

I didn’t want to fire him. He's a good printer. He's 
been all over the world several times, has worked in 
every State in the Union, and he treats a linotype like 
a younger brother. He had settled here in my shop 
two years ago, and was as much a part of the place as 
the weathered “Job Printing” sign over the door. No, 
I didn't want to fire him, but IJiad to have some kind 
of discipline. 

“Set the story as is," I said. 

“S-set it yourself. I'm q-quitting." 

He took off his apron, put on his coat, and -stamped 
out with a thirsty gleam in his eye. 

Many of you know what that little man did. He 
got drunk and -started the rumor about Dr. Scot. I 
don’t .think anybody paid any attention to him except 
Ralph Lake, but we took care of Ralph last night. I’m 
sure he doesn’t believe it any longer, and he'll never 
see this editorial. 

While Mother was getting drunk, I knew nothing 
about it, of course. I was busy setting type. I’m not 
too good at it, as you will remember. That was the 
issue which carried Henry Longernin's name misspelled 
six ways, and in which the PTA story did not appear. 
That was the issue which -carried so many short para- 
graphs of odd facts about different parts of the world. 
Such paragraphs are kept standing on galleys in any 
print shop to use as filler, and I was too slow on the 



linotype to set all the local copy Judith had turned in, 
so. I threw in several columns of filler. - ' 

When I was making up the pages; I was reminded 
of the predicament another country editor got into when 
he ran short of filler one day. His paper was full, ex- 
cept for a couple of inches in one lower corner of his 
front page. He was one of those crusading, bitter 
cusses that gave so -much color to early American fron- 
tiers, and he set up a paragraph by hand in large type 
so that it would fill the hole. The paragraph ; “A local 
banker and another rat fought with their fists last night 
at the' corner of First and Main until a gentleman who 
was asleep in the gutter woke up and asked them to be 
more quiet." All three of the men referred to took a 
poke at the editor next day, and it is said that the prac- 
tice of keeping filler on hand started at that time. 

At any rate, I had plenty; and when I had run off the 
edition on the flatbed press I went home to bed. I 
didn’t know what had happened to Mother, and I knew 
I would need another printer. 

I got some inkling of Mother’s activities the next 
morning when Dr. Evan Scot stalked into my office. 
He gave me a nod of cold recognition, and refused to 
take a chair. 

“I have come to demand an. apology, Mr. Buck." 

This was not the hearty, pompous Dr. .Scot I knew. 
He had an icy purpose in his eyes, and his chubby hands 
were rigid. I picked up a copy of the Argus , and 
skimmed through the commencement story which I 
had .set. 

“Are you misquoted, doctor ? Name spelled wrong ?" 

He waved an impatient white hand, “I don’t know. 
I haven’t even glanced at your paper. An employee of 
yours, I am told, a man named Grace, has slandered 
me. 

“He’s no longer an employee of mine." 

Dr. .Scot inclined his head in a fractional bow. “Very 
well, I shall take the matter up with the — ah, proper 
authorities. Sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Buck." 

As, he turned to go, feet scuffed across the reception 
room, and Mother Grace came -to the door, stood sway- 
ing & little on widespread legs. He was drunk. 

“Your evilness," he saluted Dr. Scot. 

The doctor gave Mother an aloof examination, eyes 
lit by a remote curiosity as they touched on Mother's 
puffed face, tousled white hair, wrinkled clothes, and 
stubbly beard. 

“You talk too much," Dr. Scot said. 

“But with authority, sir," Mother replied. 

“What authority?" 

“The very highest, I suspect. The ‘Sabbaticon.' 

“What is that?" 

Mother Grace leered crookedly. “Don’t play inno- 
cent, prince." 

Dr. . Scot’s reaction to this was what caused me to 
agree with Mother Grace ‘until Satan’s publicTrelations 
counsel set us straight on the matter. Dr. Scot* was 
■angry. You could see a. muscle twitch under one jowl, 



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61 



and his ample shoulders lifted a fraction. But his anger 
was cold. Thoughtful is perhaps a better term. He 
held his gaze steady on Mother Grace for a full ten 
seconds. Then : . 

“You talk too much,” he repeated, and thrust through 
the door. 

Mother Grace stared after him for a few seconds, 
. then came inside unsteadily and dropped into a chair. 

. “Buck, I want to talk to you.” 

“You’d better. What goes on, Mother? Are you 
serious in this talk about Dr. Scot?” 

“Deadly, Buck. And I've got a notion that it is 
deadly, too. I don’t think I’ll be around much longer. 
But before I disappear, I'd like to get some informa- 
tion out to the public.” 

“Disappear to where?” 

“Who knows? Where did the others disappear to? 
The ones who walked through their doors and were 
never seen again? I don't know where they went, but 
I think I know why. Do you want to hear about it ?” 
“If it’s entertaining, and brief.” 

“It may be dangerous, Buck.” 

“Nonsense. You're still drunk.” 

Mother looked at me with a still, unwavering earnest- 
ness, “Yes, I am, a little. Otherwise I’d be afraid 
to tell you. But I can't keep it bottled up any longer. 
Wait.” 

He went into the composing room, and I could hear 
him rummaging in the little cubbyhole where he slept. 
He came back with a peculiar book and several pages 
of manuscript in his careful handwriting. He tossed 
the book on my desk. 

“That's the ‘Sabbaticon,* Buck.” 

It seemed to be of leather. The cover was a heavy 
sort of calf, with no inscription or decoration, and the 
pages were of a thin, almost transparent leather, with a 
texture like heavy crepe. These pages were closely 
covered with symbols which were strange to me. I 
had never seen a language with characters remotely 
similar. 

I laid the book aside. “Well?” 

“That's the handbook for the Sons of Satan.” 

“Let’s have it from the beginning, Mother. You're 
still not making sense.” 

He began to talk, and after a few minutes I went 
through the reception room and locked the front door. 
T didn't want us to be interrupted. 

He said that, according to this all-leather book, a 
world-wide society, called the Sons of Satan, had been 
formed early in the history of civilization. The title 
of the group is accurate, he said ; they are physical off- 
spring of the devil, conceived in unions at Sabbats, 
gatherings of worshipers of evil. 

“Where did you get this book?” I asked. 

Mother Grace gave me a bleak look. “It belonged 
to my mother, Buck.” 

• “Good heavens. What does that mean?” 

“I don't know. I don’t want to know. She died 
iwhen I was born, and my uncle who raised and edu- 



cated me gave it to me among other effects she had 
left. I’ve spent my life trying to translate it. The 
* language isn't Latin, Greek, Sanskrit, or any other 
known today. I finished the translation a couple of 
weeks, ago.” 

“How do you know your translation is correct?” 

“I ... I feel it, Buck. Here's the meat of it, the 
rules of operation.” He handed me part of his trans- 
lation. 

I won't reproduce it here. There isn’t space, nor 
, time, perhaps. We're a little rushed for time. We're 
getting hungry, and we are determined not to suffer. 
We are just going to step through the door into that 
dead-black void. 

But the rules. The Sons of Satan are supposed to be 
men of comfortable means. No more. Not wealthy, 
but the kind we common work-a-day folk admire. The 
men who are active in community affairs, the kind who 
are pointed out as local examples for children to follow. 

They are not many, these Sons of Satan ; only enough 
to provide a flavor of moderate success everywhere. 

Their opinions are respected, but, of course, divided. 
Thus they attract followers to both sides of any ques- 
tion. This stirs up conflict that is highly desirable 
from their point of view. Their principal advice to 
youth is, roughly: “Work. Earn your bread by the 
sweat of your brow. Keep your nose to the grind- 
stone. Fame and success can be yours only if you are 
diligent.” 

“Making a virtue of a curse on mankind,” Mother 
Grace commented on this. 

“Diligence is a virtue,” I said. “Men do succeed 
by constant effort.” 

“How many?” Mother Grace jeered. “What per- 
centage of those who slave away their lives ever attain 
to comfort? I'll tell you. Only enough to promote 
envy, dissatisfaction, and uneasiness. It's in there. 
Read on.” 

I see that in describing the text of the “Sabbaticon” 
I have written in the present indicative. “They are,” 
I have said of the Sons of Satan. I want to make it 
clear that I don’t believe they* exist. You must not 
believe it, either. 

I finished. I looked at Mother Grace. “I don’t be- 
lieve it.” 

He picked up the leather book and opened it to the 
last page. “It's easy to check. All I have to do is read 
a paragraph aloud. If my translation is correct, we'll 
have the old boy himself here in the office.”. 

“Don’t be idiotic.” 

“Want me. to try? Want me to summon up the 
Prince of Darkness? I've been afraid to try before.” 

“Your translation may be correct, but the whole book 
is probably a prehistoric fairy tale.” 

“By whom, Buck? By whom?” 

“How should I know?” The uneasy feeling I’d had 
while reading his translation began to wear off, and I 
managed a grin. “Go ahead. Give him a call. We'll 
get an exclusive interview.” 



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62 



UNKNOWN WORLDS 






Mother Grace stacked the sheets of 'his translation 
neatly oh One corner of my desk, pushed .his* chair to 
one side, and knelt. Despite his rumpled condition .and 
appearance of hard wear, he had a curious dignity, 

“P hope we know what Pm doing," he said .softly, 
and began to chant in a monotone. 

He had hardly said two words, or phrases, or what-., 
ever, of that scrambled language before we, had a visitor. 

He appeared in the connecting doorway to the recep- 
tion .room. Appeared suddenly, silently, without any 
traditional puffs of smoke or smell of brimstone. He 
was young, and aside from his somewhat peculiar ears 
and odd black costume, he was not very different from 
the rest of us. 

He broke into .Mother Grace’s chant. ’“You talk 
too much." 'He pointed a long, dark 'finger at the “Sab- 
baticon,” said, “You have no right to that," and the 
book vanished. “Or thaC' he said, and the translation 
was gone. 

“Shut up!” he said as Mother Grace opened his 
mouth as if to ask a question. “Listen to me, both of 



you. , I am going to leave you here. Any time you 
like, just .step out of a door, or window, and' you’ll ' 
receive detailed attention.” 

He .seemed about to leave. “May I ask a question ?” 
He flicked an impatient look at me. “What do you 
want?” 

“You mentioned detailed attention. What does that 
mean?” 

“You’ll see.” 

“Are you Satan himself?” Mother Grace asked. 
“Certainly ;not,” the creature snapped. “He has bet- 
ter matters to occupy him. I’m his public-relations ■ 
counsel” . 

“B-but the invocation,” Mother stuttered. “It was 
s-supposed to call up the d-devil.” 

The creature looked at Mother Grace long and 
thoughtfully. “So that’s what you were doing? I — see. 
I’ll be back,” he said,' and vanished. 

Mother Grace got up off his knees. He was 'trem- 
bling. But no more than I was. The full Impact of 
the event had just hit me. We looked at each other 



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63 



and worked our mouths in an effort to speak, but 
couldn’t make a sound. Mother Grace staggered to 
the door. 

i Something brought him up short. Nothing physi- 
cal, but something he saw. He looked fixedly toward 
the street for some time. He found his voice, or at 
least a ghost of it. 

“C-come here, B-Buck.” 

That was when I saw the darkness. 

I couldn’t see through the windows or the glass on 
the door. I could hear traffic sounds in the street as 
usual, but I couldn’t see anything. The word “AR- 
GUS” on the big window was clearly outlined on the 
deeper black beyond. 

I didn’t feel that somebody had painted the windows. 
I felt that the dark had existence, beyond the windows 
and the door. I felt that it had — well, entity. I feel 
that way now, while I’m writing this. 

I had a bad time getting out the words: “Open the 
door, Mother, open the door.” 

He went to the door, unlocked it, yanked it open. 
He shrank back, and I, even though I was across the 
room, took a backward step. 

We couldn’t see through the open door. 

It’s hard to tell you about that darkness. If I try. 
I’ll make it sound ridiculous. So I’d better not try. 
Just take my word for it, it wasn’t at all ridiculous. 

Somebody called from outside : “Hello, Buck. 

Hello, Mother.” 

We each lifted a hand. As we did so, Judith stepped 
through that black nothingness, her hair an almost 
blinding brightness against the background, and the 
white silhouette of her dress was like a cutout pattern. 

We stood for a moment,, Mother examining the 
floor, I trying to see some flicker of movement in traf- 
fic I could hear outside, Judith examining both of us-. 
I knew suddenly I had to know what would happen if 
I stepped outside. I had to know if we had been 
tricked. I took a pencil from my pocket. 

“Here,” I said to Judith. “Toss this through the 
door.” 

She frowned. “Games?” 

“Just throw it.” ' . 

She did so, and I heard it fall on the walk. It hit 
that curtain of blackness and, for me, vanished. “Now 
bring it to me, please.” 

“I’m no water spaniel,”' she said. “Fetch it your- 
self.” 

“I mean it, Judith. This is no gag.” 

She shook a puzzled head and stepped into nothing. 
She came back and gave me the pencil. I threw it. 

I didn’t hear it fall. 

Judith blinked. “You ought to go on the stage, 
Buck. I saw it, then I didn’t. Nice illusion.” 

“Little thing I picked up,” I said. 

“From your tone, I’d say you dug it up.” 

“What did you see, chicken?” 

“See? I know enough about that sort of thing to 
know I didn’t see anything. I thought, though, I saw 



a pencil fly barely through the door and — f-f-jt. It 
wasn’t there any more. How did you do it?” 

" “It’s a secret.” To Mother Grace, who was staring 
at the door, I said, “Let’s go to work.” 

He ambled into the composing room. I flung an- 
other look at the door and started after him. 

“Buck,” Judith said softly, “wait a minute.” 

She looked unhappy, puzzled. “What is it, kid?” 
“It’s about Ralph, Buck. And what Mother Grace 
told him last night.” 

“Come in my office.” When we were in there, and I 
couldn’t see the blackness, “Tell,” I said. 

“Well, Mother got stiff as a butler last night and 
gave Ralph a lot of guff about how we’re being tricked 
by some crazy devil’s club, he calls it. He was so con- 
vincing that Ralph believes it. So Ralph wants to ring 
wedding bells, even though we’re broke. The hell with 
work, Ralph said, with- that and everything else. 
There’s no point to working, he said, if it’s all a hoax. 
I don’t know quite what to do with him. We stfll 
haven’t paid his dental bill.” 

What could I tell her? At that time, I believed 
Mother’s story. “Bring him in tomorrow, Judith. 
We’ll have Mother issue a denial, or something. We’ll 
figure out something. And you can have today off.” 
“Thanks, Buck,” she said. “I’ve a couple of stories 
to write first.” 

“Leave your notes. I’ll write ’em. Fm expecting a 
visitor for an important conference.” 

She gave me a sheaf of typed stationery. “These 
are the speeches for the Club Moderne tonight. Quote 
as liberally as you like. Here are the scores on the 
baseball game yesterday, and police notes. One drunk, 
two vags. Nothing ever happens in this town.' See 
you tomorrow.” 

I went out to talk to Mother Grace. 

Now I want all of you Argus subscribers to under- 
stand that it is difficult for me to relate and interpret 
events from this point in my narrative to the present. 
I am going to be honest with you. Please believe me. 
But I am going to tell what I think is essential to a 
correct analysis, and no more. There are certain facts 
I must leave unrelated, for I feel that they would con- 
fuse the issue. 

^ Newspaper reporters learn early in their training 
to “slant” a story. By the twist of a phrase, by the 
deletion of contributing factors, they learn to make even 
a factual account of events in motion to mean something 
that is not wholly — or something that is more than — 
the truth. I am going to do that here, but only in or- 
der to be what I think is more honest. I want this last 
testament to be read and remembered as the truth. 

One of the facts I am going to eliminate from con- 
sideration is the story Mother Grace had set on . the 
linotype while I was talking about Ralph Lake with 
Judith. I leave it out because it simply can’t be true; 
I don’t dare let you believe it. 

When I came into the composing room, Mother 
added the last slug of type to the galley on his machine 



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64 



UNKNOWN WORLDS 



and took a proof. He handed it to me without com- 
ment. I read it, and I believed it — at the time. 

“These are verbatim^ quotations from the ‘Sabbati- 
con’ ?” I asked: 

“I'll swear to it,” Mother Grace said. “I’ve been so 
close to that devilish book that I know it, word for 
word. I'll never forget it.” 

I read it again. Then I followed Mother's glance to 
the little window high in the wall above the press. The 
darkness. was there, too, a kind of polarized darkness 
which allowed light to come into the building, but pre- 
vented us from seeing out. 

“I want to compare our reactions, Mother. Do you 
see a sort of blackness ?” 

“Yeah, Buck. That pencil, too. Even the hairs in 
my eyebrows prickled.” 

“Maybe we can't get a paper out.” . . 

“I thought about that, Buck. But let's try. We've 
got.io let the world know.” 

“Yes. We’ve got to let the world know. But look, 
if there’s only one in every hundred thousand who is a 
Son of Satan, how.. could they be tracked? It would 
be like the seventeenth century witch hunts. Thousands 
of innocents would be. killed.” 

“There’s a sign, Buck.” 

He told me the sign, and I am not telling it here, 
because, as I say, it would confuse the issue. And I* 
no longer believe it. 

And I ask you to believe my first statement: Dr. 
Evan Scot is not a Son of Satan. I ask you to take it 
on faith. You must believe me, as you will see. I am 
not going to tell you the sign so that you can look for , 
it on him. I don’t want you to become confused. 

“Look, Mother,” I said as soon as I got my voice 
working again. “If I can throw a pencil through the 
door, it stands to reason we can't get an issue of the 
paper outside. But let’s don’t shoot our whole load on 
an experiment. Let’s put out the regular edition, with 
none of this in it. A trial balloon, so to speak. If that 
goes out, then we can shoot this tomorrow.” 

“That’s sense, Buck.” 

“Another thing. Our — ah, visitor said he'd be back. 
JVhen, do you think ?” 

“How the hell should I know?” 

“You know more about his kind than I. You had 
the book, didn’t you?” 

That hurt him, and I hadn't meant it to. He jerked, 
as if I'd hit him with a lead pig, then, looked at me 
steadily. 

“Buck, if you think I’m one of the Sons that got 
away, and I'll admit possession of the book might in- 
dicate it, I'd rather you’d kill me here. Or I’ll step 
out the door. I mean that, Buck. If you think there’s 
something wrong about my ancestry, if you can’t trust 
me to the limit, I’d rather get out.' I want people to 
have this information. I want to help, but if you're 
afraid of me, I’ll walk out into whatever that is wait- 
ing-” •" . 

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get to work,*' 
pal.” 



That edition went out, but as you know, you didn’t 
get a paper the next day, or yesterday. The press broke 
down. There was nothing unusual, about it. It does 
that occasionally. We did not feel that supernatural 
forces had stopped us, because we could see a gear 
that had crystallized. It wasn't even dramatic, crawl- 
ing around in grease and printer's ink.- 
_ But we didn’t have time to talk to~Judith and Ralph, 
and they said they’d come back later. 

They did. Last night. So did the creature who 
had arrived while Mother Grace was chanting the para- 
graph from the “Sabbaticon.” We had just finished 
repairing the press, cleaned ourselves up, and were hav- 
ing a drink, when he was suddenly there again, in the 
composing room with us. 

His strange ears were fairly quivering. “I’ve got a 
million things to do,” he . said, “and you pull a stupid 
trick like that, Grace. Shut up! Listen to me, both 
of you. As a result of flapping your mouth, a special 
reception is being prepared for you. Not only that, 
but I’ll be forced to throw the Wall around half the 
houses in this town if the rumors you set in motion are 
accepted as facts. Fools ! As if I weren’t busy enough, 
you try to overwork me further.” 

There seemed nothing to be gained by being afraid 
of him, or nice to him, so I said, “You’re the fool. 
Why did you leave that copy of the book where any- 
body could get it?” 

* “Shut up!” he snapped. “I didn’t do it. It was be- 
fore my time. It wouldn't have happened if I'd had 
anything to do with it.” 

“But it happened, and! it wasn't our fault. Why 
should we suffer?” 

“Because I say you shall.” * ' . 

“So you're afraid to let the truth become known? 
You don’t think you could cope with people if they 
realize that most ot our eternal verities are vicious 
jokes to keep us unhappy forever?” 

“Who said anything about truth, fool?” 

“Your actions admit it. You don't have to say it.” 
“I didn’t say that the truth was in that book, I tell 
you this*: the Wall is not around this building neces- 
sarily because you have discovered a truth, but because ,* 
you believe it to be true. The same will be done to 
anyone else who believes as you.” He turned to 
Mother Grace, who was staring at the little window 
high in the wail above the press. “Have you told this 
story in detail to anyone besides this idiot?” 

Mother Grace was slow in bringing his eyes back 
into focus, and before he could say anything, a pound- 
ing rattled the locked front door, and Judith yelled: 
“Oh, Buck! Let us in!” 

Mother Grace answered the question. “No. I didn’t . 
tell anybody.” 

“Who’s out there?” our visitor snapped. - 
, “A couple of. my employees, here for a conference.” 
“Keep them in the front. I don’t want them to see 
me. I’m busy enough as it is.” 



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65 



“I’ll be right back/’ 

I told Judith and Ralph to stay in the reception room 
and went back. I wanted the answer to one more ques- 
tion. 

“Look/* I said. “You won't admit the truth of 
Mother’s story, you won’t deny it. Answer me this: 
Is the ‘Sabbaticon’ itself a hoax? Was it planted just 
to increase the sum total of unhappiness?” 

He smiled. “That would be an amusing refinement. 
If it had been planted, if people believed it, and if every 
man would then look on his neighbor with a suspicion 
of diabolic origin — yes, that would be pretty. I’ll file 
that away for future reference.” 

“Then it isn’t true?” 

“Oh, I didn’t say that,” he said quickly. “I didn’t 
say anything.” 

“I say the ‘Sabbaticon’ was the hoax, then. I say 
that its story of the Sons of Satans was untrue. I am 
going to tell the readers of my paper that, if I may.” 

“Surely,” he agreed. “If you can make them believe 
it, I won’t need to use the Wall on this town. I’ll 
welcome anything to avoid that on top of my other 
duties.” 

“What about us ?” Mother Grace asked. “Wh-what 
if w-we change our b-belief? Will we get free?” 

“No. Oh, if you changed your belief, yes. But you 
can’t. You believe it too deeply. Now, I’ve wasted 
too much time here already. I don’t care what you do, 
but if you clear up the mess this fool started, your re- 
ception won’t be quite so — ah, special, when you step 
into the Wall.” c 

He was suddenly gone, and my first sensation was 
regret that he had never turned his back to us once. I 
can’t tell you whether he had a tail or not. 

But I can clear up his one definite misstatement. I 
have said several times that I do not believe the “Sab- 
baticon” was a true record. Once I had penetrated the 
hoax, I didn’t believe any more in the Sons of Satan. 
My disbelief was so strong that the first thing I did 
was to tear up the proofs of the quotations Mother 
Grace had set — the quotations I did not include in this 
— and threw the type into the linotype pot. 

We convinced Ralph Lake. He finally believed that 
Mother Grace’s story was a phase of D. T.’s. How 
we did it is not important. Those of you who know the 



big, stubborn prizefighter will realize what a job we 
had. But he believed us, and so shall you. 

Mother Grace and I also gave all our money .to 
Judith and Ralph, and drew checks for our bank bal- 
ances, and got their promise to catch the early-morning 
train to Kansas City, where they will be married. I 
mention this here, so that the bank will honor the checks 
when they come in. 

* * * * * * * 

The asterisks indicate an interruption. Dr. Evan 
Scot came in as I sat at my typewriter finishing this 
editorial. I don’t have time to begin this over again 
from the beginning. Mother Grace and I are too hun- 
gry. He has been taking the sheets from me as I finish 
them, to set in type. This is the twenty-first sheet. I 
am sure you will forgive me for having used up all 
these words to try to prove something that was proved 
so dramatically a moment ago. 

• Mother Grace and Dr. Scot got into an argument. 
Dr. Scot wanted an apology. Mother Grace refused. 
I stepped between them to stop the fight. Mother 
Grace dared Dr. Scot to take off his shirt. 

Mother Grace was so angry he was crying. “You 
d-don’t dare take it. off — you don’t dare, you son of 
Lucifer!” 

JDr. Scot gave him a cold but puzzled look, and 
stripped slowly and deliberately to the waist. Mother 
Grace looked at Dr, Scot’s back, and his shoulders 
slumped. 

“I apologize, doc,” he said. “I w-was wrong. Damn 
it!” he shouted, and went back into the composing 
room. 

Dr. Scot got back into his clothes, nodded a cool 
good-by to me, and stepped into the Wall. I could 
hear his steps on the sidewalk, but I couldn’t see him, 
nor could I see street lamps, or star shine, through that 
curtain. 

We are going to step into it as soon as we run this 
edition off the press, but I am glad there is no danger 
to you. 

Provided — that you don’t believe in the Sons of Sa- 
tan. I don’t. I say it again, I don’t. You must not. 
Must not. 

The Wall will be around your house if you do. 



THE END. 




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66 



A GOOD 



GHT'S WORK 



© A helping hand from the horny-handed gentle- 
man with the solid iron nightshirt proved of use 
against the modern equivalent of ye olde dragon — 



Illustrated by Edd Cartier 



I am stepping on the gas, air is pouring into the truck 
and curses are pouring out, because I feel like I get up 
on the wrong side of the gutter this morning. > 

Back in the old days I am always informing the mob 
how I am going to get - away from it ail and buy a little 
farm in the country and raise chickens. So now I raise 
chickens and wish I am back in the old days raising hell. 

It is one of those things, and today it is maybe two 
or three of them, in spades. Perhaps you are lucky and 
do not live in the Corn Belt, so I will mention a few 
items to show that the guy naming it knows what he’s 
talking about. 

This morning I wake up at four a. m. because fifty 
thousand sparrows are holding a Communist rally un- 
der the window. I knock my shins over, a wheelbarrow 
in the back yard because the plumbing is remote. When 
I get dressed I have to play tag with fifty chickens I am 
taking to market, and by the time that’s over I am cov- 
ered with more feathers than a senator who gets adopted 
by Indians in a newsreel. After which all I do is load 
the cacklers on the truck, drive fifty miles to town, sell 
biddies at a loss, and drive back — strictly without break- 
fast. 

Breakfast I must catch down the road at the tavern, 
where I got to pay ten bucks to Thin Tommy Malloon 
for protection. 

That .is my set-up and explains why I am not exactly 
bubbling over with good spirits. There is nothing to do ' 
about it but keep a stiff upper lip — mostly around the 
bottle I carry with me on the trip back. 

Well, I am almost feeling better after a few quick 
ones, and am just about ready to stop my moans and 
groans when I spot this sign on the road. 

I don’t know how -it is with you. But this is how it 
is with me. I do not like signs on the road a bit, and of ' 
all the signs I do not, like, the SIAMESE SHAVE 
signs I hate in spades. 

They stand along the highway in series, and each of 



them has a line of poetry on it so when you pass them 
all you. read a little poem about SIAMESE SHAVE. 
They are like the Old Lady Goose rhymes they feed the 
juveniles, and I do not have any love for Ma Goose and 
her poetry. * • 

Anyhow, when I see this first sign I let out some 
steam and take another nip. But I cannot resist read- 
ing the sign because I always do. It says : 

-“DON’T WEAR A LONG BEARD.” 

And a little further on the second one reads : 

“LIKE A GOAT.” 

Pretty soon I come to, the third one, saying ; 

“JUST TAKE A RAZOR.” 

And all at once I’m happy, hoping maybe somebody 
made a mistake and the fourth sign will say : 

“AND CUT YOUR THROAT!” 

So I can hardly wait to see the last one, and I-m look- 
ing ahead on the road, squinting hard. Then I slam on 
the brakes. 

No, I don’t see a sign. There is a thing blocking the 
road, instead. Two things. 

One of_ these things is a horse. At least, it looks 
more like a horse than anything else I could see on four 
drinks. It is a horse covered with a kind of awning, or 
tent that hangs down over its legs, and out on its neck.' 
In fact, I noticed that this horse is wearing a mask over 
Its head with eyeholes, like it belonged to the Ku Klux 
Klan. 

The other thing is riding the horse. It is all silver, 
from head to foot, and I notice that there is a long 
plume growing out of its head. It looks like a man, and 
it has a long, sharp pole in one hand and the top off a 
garbage can in the other. 

Now when I look at this party. I am certain of only 
one thing. This is not the Lone Ranger. 

When I drive a little closer my baby-blue eyes tell me 
that what I am staring at is a man dressed up in a suit 
of armor, and that the long sharp pole is nothing but a 



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little thing like a twelve-foot spear with a razor on the 
end. 

Who he is and why he is dressed up this way may be 
very interesting to certain parties like the State police, 
but I am very far away from being one. Also I am very 
far away from Thin Tommy Malloon who is waiting for 
my ten bucks protection money. Thin Tommy is not 
the kind of a man who likes waiting, especially for 
money. ' ‘ 

So when I see Old Ironsides blocking the road, I 
place my head outside the window and request, “Get the 
hell out of the way, buddy !” in a loud but polite voice. 

Which turns out to be a mistake, in spades and no 
trump. 

The party in the tin tuxedo just looks at the truck 
coming his way, and cocks his iron head when he sees 
steam coming from the carburetor. The exhaust is 
beginning to make trombone noises, because I am step- 
ping hard on the gas, and this seems to make up the 
heavy dresser’s mind for him. 



“Yoicks!” howls his voice behind his helmet. “A 
dragon !” 

And all at once he levels that lance of his, knocks his 
tootsies against the horse’s ribs, and starts coming head- 
on for the truck. 

“For Pendragon and England!” he bawls, over the 
clanking. And charges straight ahead like a baby tank. 

That twelve-foot razor of his is pointed straight for 
my radiator, and I do not wish him to cut my motor, 
so naturally I swing the old truck out of the way. 

This merely blows the carburetor cap higher than the 
national debt, and out shoots enough steam and hot air 
to supply a dozen congressmen. 

The horse rears up, and the tintype lets out a yap, let- 
ting his lance loose. Instead of hitting the radiator, it 
smashes my windshield. 

Also my temper. I stop the truck and get out, fast. 
“Now, listen, buddy,” I reason with him. 

“Aha!” comes the voice from under the helmet. “A 
wizard !” He uses a brand of double-talk I do not soon 
forget. “Halt ye, for it is Pallagyn who speaks.” 



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UNKNOWN WORLDS 



I am in no mood for orations, so. I walk up to him, 
waving a pipe wrench. 

“Bust my windows, eh, buddy? Monkey business on 
a public highway, is it? I’m going to — Yowl” 

I am a personality that seldom hollers “Yow !” even 
at a burlesque show, but when this armor-plated jockey 
slides off his horse and comes for me, he is juggling a 
sharp six feet of sword. And six feet of sword sailing 
for your neck is worth a “Yow !” any day, I figure. 

I also figure I had better duck unless I want a shave 
and a haircut, and it is lucky for me that Iron-lung 
has to move slow when he" whams his sword down at me. 

I come up under his guard and give him a rap on the 
old orange with my pipe wrench. " / 

There is no result. 

The steel king drops his sword and lets out another 
roar, and I caress his helmet again with the wrench. 
Still no result. I get my result on the third try. The 
wrench breaks. ' , 

And then his iron arms grab me, and I am in for it. 
The first thing I know, everything is turning black as 
solitary, and my sparring partner is reaching for a shiver 
at his belt. I get my foot there, fast. 

All I can do is push forward, but it works. About a 
hundred and fifty pounds of armor loses balance, and 
there is nothing for the guy inside to do except go down 
with it. Which he does, bn his back. Then I am on his 
chest, and I roll up the Venetian blind on the front of 
his helmet. 

“Hold, enough !” comes the double-talk from inside. 
“Prithee, hold !” ' : 

“O. K., buddy. But open up that mail box of yours. 
I want to see the face of the damned fool that tries to 
get me into a traffic accident with a load of tin.” 

He pulls up the shutters, and I get a peek at a purple 
face decorated with red whiskers. There are blue eyes, 
too, and they look down, ashamed. 

“Ye are the first, O Wizard, to gaze upon the van- 
quished face of Sir Pallagyn of the Black Keep,” he 
mumbles. 

I get off his chest like it was the hot seat. Because, 
although I am very fond of nuts, I like them only in 
jruit cakes. 

“.I’ve got to be going,” I mention. “I don’t know 
who you are or why you are running around like this, 
and I maybe ought to have you run in, but I got busi- 
ness up the road," see ? So long.” 

I start walking away and turn around. “Besides, my 
name is not O. Wizard.” 

“Verily,” says the guy who calls himself Sir Pallagyn, 
getting up slow, with a lot of rattling, “Ye are a wizard, 
for ye ride a dragon breathing fire and steam — ” 

I am thinking of the fire and steam Thin Tommy 
Malloon is breathing right now, so I pay little or no 
attention, but get in the truck. Then this Pallagyn 
comes running up and yells,' “Wait !” 

“What for?” 4 

“My steed and arms are yours by right of joust.” 
Something clicks inside my head, and even if it is an 



eight ball, I get interested. “Wait a minute,” I suggest. 
“Just who are you and where do you hang out?” 

“Why,” says he, “as I bespoke, O Wizard — I am Sir 
Pallagyn of the Black Keep, sent here ensorcelled by 
Merlin, from Arthur’s court at Camelot. And I hang 
out at the greves in my armor,” he adds, tucking in- some 
cloth sticking out of the chinks and joints in his heavy 
suit. 

“Huh?” is about the best I can do. 

“And having bested me in fair combat, ye gain my 
steed and weapons, by custom of the joust.” He shakes 
his head, making a noise like a Tommy-gun. “Merlin 
will be very angry when he hears of this, I wot.” 

“Merlin?” 

“Merlin, the Gray Wizard, who sent me upon the 
quest,” he explains. “He it was who sped me forward 
in Time, to quest for the Cappadocian Tabouret.” 

Now I am not altogether a lug — as you can tell by the 
way I look up some of the spelling on these items — and 
when something clicks inside my noggin it means I am 
thinking, but difficult. ■ 

I know I am dealing with the worst kind of screw- 
ball — the kind that bounces — but still there is some 
sense in what he is saying. I see this King Arthur and 
this Merlin in a picture once, and I see also some per- 
sonalities in armor that are called knights, which means 
they are King Arthur’s trigger men. They hang out 
- around a big table in a stone hide-out and are always 
spoiling for trouble and going off on quests — which 
means, putting the goniff on stuff which doesn’t belong 
on them, or copping dames from other knights. 

But I figure all this happens maybe a hundred years 
ago, or so, over in Europe, before. they throw away their 
armor and change into colored shirts to put the rackets 
on an organized paying basis. 

And this line about going forward in Time to find - 
something is practically impossible, unless you go for 
Einstein’s theory, which I don’t, preferring Ann Sheri- 
dan. 

Still, it is you might say unusual, so I answer this _ 
squirrel. “What you’re trying to tell me is that you 
come here from King Arthur’s court and some magician 
sends you to find something?” 

' “Verily, O Wizard. Merlin counseled me that I might 
not be believed,” says Pallagyn, sadlike. He chews on 
' his mustache, without butter. He almost looks like he is 
promoting a weeper. 

“I believe you, buddy,” I say, wanting to cheer him 
up and also get out of here. 

“Then take my mount and weapons — it is required by 
law of the joust,” he insists. 

Right then I figure I would rather take a drink. I do. 
It makes me feel better. I get out and walk over to the 
oat-burner. ' “I don’t know what to do with this four- 
legged blue barrel,” I tell him, “or your manicure set, 
either. . But if it makes you happy, I will take them 
with me.” 

So I grab the nag and take him around back of the 
truck, let down the ramp and put him in. When I get- 



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back, Sir Pallagyn is piling his steel polo set into the 
front seat. 

“I place these on the dragon for thee,” he says. 

“This isn’t a dragon,” I explain. “It’s a Ford.” 
“Ford? Merlin did not speak of that creature.” He 
climbs into the seat after his cutlery, looking afraid the 
steering wheel will bite him. 

“Hey, where you going ?” 

“With thee, O Wizard. The steed and weapons are 
thine, but I must follow Ahem, even into captivity. It is 
the law of the quest.” 

“You got laws on the brain, that's your trouble. Now 
listen, I don’t like hitchhikers — ” 

Then I gander at my ticker and see it is almost ten 
and remember I am to meet Thin Tommy at eight. So 
I figure, why not ? I will give this number a short lift 
down the pike and dump him where it is quiet and for- 
get him. Maybe I can also find out whether or not 
there is somebody missing from Baycrest, which is the 
local laughing academy, and turn him in. Anyway, I 
have my date to keep, so I start the truck rolling. 

This Pallagyn lets out a : sort of whistle through his 
whiskers when I hit it up, so I say, “What’s the matter, 
buddy, are you thirsty ?” 

“No,” he gasps. “But we are flying!” 

“Only doing forty,” I tells him. “Look at the 
speedometer.” 

“Forty what? Speedometer?” 

My noggin is clicking like a slot machine in a church 
bazaar. This baby isn’t faking ! I get another look at 
his armor and see it is solid stuff — not like fancy-dress 
costumes, but real heavy, with little designs in gold and 
silver running through it. And he doesn’t know what a 
car is, or a speedometer ! 

“You need a drink,” I says, taking it for him, and 
then passing him the bottle. 

“Mead?” _ says. 

“No, Haig & Haig. Try a slug.” 

He tilts the bottle and takes a terrific triple-tongue. 
He lets out a roar and turns redder than his whiskers. 
“I am bewitched !” he yells. “Ye black wizard !” 
“Hold it. You’ll cool off in a minute. Besides, I’m 
not a wizard. I’m a truck farmer, believe it or not, and 
don’t let them kid you down at the Bastille. I’m 
through with the rackets,” 

He gets quieter in a minute and -begins to ask me 
questions. Before I know it, I am explaining who I am 
and what I am doing, and after another drink it doesn’t 
seem so screwy to me any more. 

Even when he tells me about this Merlin baby putting 
a spell on him* and sending him through Time to go on a 
quest, I swallow it like my last shot. I break down and 
tell him to call me Butch. In a few minutes we’re prac- 
tically cell mates. 

“Ye may call me Pallagyn,” he says. 

“O. K., Pal. How about another slug?” 

This time he is more cautious, and it must go down 
fairly well, because he smacks his lips and doesn’t hardly 
even turn pink. 



‘ 69 

“Might I inquire as to your destination, O Butch?” 
he lets out, after a minute or so. 

“You might,” I says. “There it is, straight ahead.” 

I point out the building we are just coming to. It is a 
roadhouse and tavern called “The Blunder Inn,” and it 
is in this rat hole that Thin Tommy Malloon hangs his 
hat and holster. This I explain to Pal. 

“It doth not resemble a rat hole,” he comments. 

“Any place where Thin Tommy gets in must be a 
hat hole,” I tell him, “because Thin Tommy is a rat. 
He is a wrongo but strongo. Nevertheless, I must now 
go in. and pay him his ten dollars for protection or he 
will sprinkle lye on my alfalfa.” 

“What do you mean?” asks Pallagyn. 

So I explain to him very simple in words of three 
letters how Thin Tommy use to be a high number in 
the rackets back in town but decides to retire. How he 
buys this roadhouse and clips customers at night, but 
being naturally a very energetic type of guy, he gets 
bored unless he can clip customers by day, also. So he 
figures out that he can sell protection to farmers in the 
country just like he sells it to grocery stores and gas 
stations in the city. 

“Protection?” interrupts Pallagyn. 

“Yes, Pal. I have a little farm, and I must pay Thin 
Tommy ten a week or else I will have trouble, such as 
finding ground glass in my hen mash, or a pineapple 
in my silo.” 

“Ye pay to keep vandals from despoiling the crops?” 
asks the knight. “Would it not be expedient to discover 
the miscreants and punish them?” 

“I know who would wreck the farm if I didn’t pay,” 
I reply. “Thin Tommy.” 

“Ah, now methinks I comprehend thy plight. Thou 
art ^ serf, and this Thin Thomas is thy -overlord.” 

Somehow this remark, and the way Pallagyn says it, 
seems to show me up for a sucker. And I have "just 
enough drink in me to resent it. 

“I am no serf,” I shout. “As a matter of fact, I am 
waiting a long time to fix the clock of this Thin Tommy. 
So today I pay him no ten dollars, and I am going in to 
■tell him so to what he calls his face.” 

Pallagyn listens to me kind of close, because he seems 
pretty ignorant on English and grammar, but he catches 
on and smiles. 

“Spoken like a right true knight,” he says. “I shall 
Accompany ye on this mission, for I find in my heart a 
liking for thy steadfast purpose, and a hatred of Thin 
Thomas.” 

“Sit where you are/’ I says, fast, “I will handle this 
myself. Because Thin Tommy does not like strangers 
coming into his joint in the daytime without an invita- 
tion, and you are dressed kind of loud and conspicuous. 
So you stay here,” I tell him, “and have a drink.” 

And I pull up and climb out of the car and march into 
the tavern fast. 

My heart is going fast also, because what I am about 
to do is enough to make any heart go fast in case Thin 



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Tommy gets an idea to stop it from beating altogether. 
Which he sometimes does when he is irked, particularly 
over money. „ 

Even so I walk up to the bar and sure enough, 
there is Thin Tommy standing there polishing the 
glasses with boxing gloves on. Only when I look again 
I realize these are not boxing gloves at all, but merely 
Thin Tommy’s hands. 

Thin Tommy is not really thin, you understand, but is 
called that because he weighs about three hundred fifty 
pounds, stripped — such as once a month, when he takes 
a bath. 

“So, it’s you!” he says, in a voice like a warden. 

“Hello, Thin Tommy,” I greet him. “How are 
tricks?” 

“I will show you how tricks are if you do not cough 
up. those ten berries fast and furious,” grunts Thin 
Tommy. “All of the others have been here two or 
three hours ago, and I am waiting to go to the bank.” 

“Go right ahead,” I tell him. “I wouldn’t stop you.” 

Thin Tommy drops the glass he is polishing and leans 
over the bar. “Hand it over,” he says through his 
teeth. They are big yellow teeth, all smashed together 
in not such a pleasant grin. 

I grin right back at- him because how can he see my 
knees shaking? 

“I have nothing for you, Tommy,” I get out. “In 
fact, that is why I stopped in, to tell you that from now 
on I do not require protection any longer.” 

“Ha!” yells Thin Tommy, pounding on the bar and 
then jumping around it with great speed for a man of 
his weight. “Bertram!” he calls. “Roscoe!” 

Bertram and Roscoe are-Tommy’s two waiters, but I 
know Tommy is not calling them in to serve me. 

They come running out of the back, and I see they 
have experience in such matters before, because Bertram 
is carrying a blackjack and Roscoe has a little knife in 
his hand. This knife worries me most, because I am 
practically certain that Roscoe is never a boy scout. 

By the time I . see all this, Thin Tommy is almost on 
top of me, and he lets go with one arm for my jaw. I 
bend my head down just in time, but Thin Tommy’s 
other hand catches me from the side and slaps me across 
the room. I fall over a chair, and by this time Bertram 
and Roscoe are ready to wait on me. In fact, one of 
them pulls out the chair I fell over, and tries to hit me 
on the head with it. 

I let out a yell and grab up a salt cellar from the table. 
This I push down Bertram’s mouth, and I am just ready 
to throw a little pepper in Roscoe’s eyes when Thin 
Tommy crashes over, grabs the knife from Roscoe’s 
hand, and backs me into the corner. 

All at once I hear a crash outside the door, and some- 
body hollers, “Yoicks! .Pendragon and Pallagyn!” 

Into the room gallops Sir Pallagyn. He has got his 
sword in one hand, and the empty bottle in the other, 
and he is full to the eyeballs with courage. 

He lets the bottle go first and it catches Bertram in 
the side of the head, just when he is getting the salt 



cellar out of his mouth. - Bertram slides down with a 
sort of moan, and Roscoe and Tommy turn around. 

“It’s one of them there . rowboats, like I , seen at the 
Fair!” remarks Thin Tommy. 

“Yeah,” says Roscoe, who is 'all at once very busy 
when Pallagyn comes for him with his sword. In fact 
Roscoe is so busy he falls over the chair and lands on 
his face, which gets caught in a cuspidor. Pallagyn is 
ready to whack him one when Thin Tommy drops hold 
' of me and lets out a grunt. 

He grabs up the blackjack and the dagger both in the 
same hand and lets fly. They bounce off Pallagyn’s 
helmet, of course, so Thin Tommy tries a chair. This 
doesn’t work, either, so he picks up the table. 

Pallagyn just turns kind of surprised and starts com- 
ing for him. And Thin Tommy backs away. 

“No . . . no — ” he says. All at once he reaches into 
his hip pocket and pulls out the old lead poisoner. 

“Watch out !” I yell, trying to get to Tommy before 
he can shoot. “Duck, Pal — duck !” 

Pallagyn ducks, but he is still running forward and 
his armor is so heavy he can’t stop if he wants to keep 
from falling over. 

The gun goes off over his head, but then Sir Pallagyn 
is going on, and he runs right into Thin Tommy, butt- 
ing, his head into his stomach. Thin Tommy just gives 
one “Ooooof!” and sits down backward, holding his 
belly where the helmet hit it, and he turns very green 
indeed. 

Pajlagyn sticks out his sword, but I say, “Never 
mind. This ought to teach him a lesson.” 

Going out,. Thin Tommy just manages to whisper 
to me, “Who is that guy?” 

“That,” I tell him, “is my new hired man. So if I 
was you, I wouldn’t plant any pineapples on my farm, 
because he is allergic to fruit.” v 

So we leave and climb back into the truck. 

“Thanks, Pal,” I say. “You not only threw a scare 
into that monkey but you also saved my life. I am in 
debt to you, whoever you are, and if Thin Tommy didn’t 
serve such rotgut, I would take you back in and buy 
you a drink.” 

“Verily, ‘tis a trifle,” says Pallagyn. 

“I’ll do you the same some day, Pal,” I tell him. “You 
are my buddy.” 

, “Ye could help me now, methinks.” 

“How?” 

“Why, in pursuit of my quest. I was sent here by 
Merlin to seek the Cappadocian Tabouret.” 

“I do not know anything about the new night clubs,” 
I tell him. “I am not an uptown boy any longer.” 

“The Cappadocian Tabouret,” says Pallagyn, ignor- 
ing me, “is the table on which the Holy Grail will rest, 
once we find it.” 

“Holy Grail?” 

So Pallagyn began to tell me a long yarn about how 
he is living in a castle with this King Arthur and a hun- 
dred other triggers s who are all knights like he is. As 
near as I get it, all they do is sit around and drink and 



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71 



fight each other, which makes it look like this King 
Arthur is not so good in controlling his mob. 

The brain in this outfit is this guy Merlin, who is a 
very prominent old fuddy'in the Magician's Union. He 
is always sending the lads out to rescue dames that have 
been snatched; or to knock off the hoods of other mobs, 
but what he is really interested in is this Holy Grail. 

I cannot catch exactly what the Holy Grail is, except 
it's kind of a loving cup or trophy that has disappeared 
from some hock shop back there in the Middle Ages. 
But everybody is hot to find it, including the big boys 
in the 1110b like Sir Galahad and Sir Lancelot. 

When Pallagyn mentions these two I know I have 
heard of them some place, so naturally I ask questions 
and find out quite a bit about ancient times and knights 
and how they live and about the tournaments — which 
are pretty much the same as the Rose Bowl games, with- 
out a take — and many other items which are of great 
interest to an amateur scholar like myself. 

But to slice a long story thin, Merlin cannot put the 
finger on this Holy Grail yet, although he is sending out 
parties every day to go on these quests for it. But he 
is a smart cookie in many another way, and one of his 
little tricks is to get himself coked up and then look into 
the future. For example, he tells King Arthur that he 
is going to have trouble some time ahead, and Pallagyn 
says he may be right, because he personally notices this 
Sir Lancelot making pigeon noises at Arthur's skirt 
But gossip aside, one of the things Merlin sees in the 
future is this Cappadocian Tabouret, which is a sacred 
relic on which the Holy Grail is supposed to sit 

So the old hophead calls in Sir Pallagyn and says he 
is sending him on a quest for the glory of Britain, to get 
this table for the Holy Grail arid bring it back. 

All Merlin can do to help him is to put a spell on him 
and send him into the future to the time where he sees 
the Tabouret. 

And he tells him a little about these times and this 
country, sprinkles a little powder on him, and all at once 
Pallagyn is sitting on his horse in the middle of County 
Trunk A A, where I find him. 

“That is not exactly the easiest story in the world to 
believe," I remark, when Pallagyn finishes. 

“Here I am,” says the knight, which is about as good 
an answer as any. 

For a minute I think I can understand how he must 
feel, being shipped off through Time into a new terri- 
tory, without even a road map to help him. And since 
he is a good guy and saved my life, I figure the least 
I can do is try. 

“Didn't this old snowbird give you a hint where it 
might be?” I ask. 

“Merlin? Forsooth, he spoke of seeing it in a House 
of the Past.” 

“What kind of house?” 

“House of the Past, methinks he named it.” 

“Never heard of it,” I says, “unless he means a 
funeral parlor. And you don't catch me going into any 
stiff hotel.” 



I say this as we are driving into my yard, and I stop 
the truck. 

“Let's grab a plate of lunch,” I suggest. “Maybe we 
can think of something.” 

“Lunch?” 

“Grub — hay — food.” 

“Here?” 

“Yeah. This is my dump — house.” 

I salvage Pallagyn out of the car and take hirn in- 
side. Then, 'while I fix the food, he sits there in the 
kitchen and asks me a thousand screwy questions. He 
is very ignorant about everything. 

It turns out that back in his times, there is not enough 
civilization to put in your ear. He doesn't know what 
a stove is, or gas, and I can see why they call them the 
Dark Ages when he tells me he hasn't ever seen an 
electric light. 

So I tell him everything, about cars and trains and 
airplanes and tractors and steamships, and then I break 
down and give him a few inside tips on how citizens live. 

I hand it to him about the mobs and the rackets and 
the bluecoats, arid politics and elections. Then I give 
him a few tips about science — machine guns and 
armored cars and tear gas and pineapples and finger- 
prints, all the latest stuff. - 

It is very hard to explain these matters to such an 
ignorant guy as this Pallagyn, but he is so interested 
and grateful that I want to give him the right steer. 

I even show him how to eat with a knife and fork, as 
it turns out at lunch that King Arthur's court doesn’t 
go in for fancy table manners. 

But I am not a schoolteacher, and after all, we are 
not getting any closer to* Sir Pallagyn's problem, which 
is snatching this Tabouret in his quest. 

So I begin asking him all over again about what it is 
and what it looks like and where this fink Merlin said 
he could find it. 

And all he manages to come clean with is that it's in 
the House of the Past, and that Merlin sees it in a jag. 

“Big place,” he says. “And the Tabouret is guarded 
by men in blue.” 

“Police station?” I wonder. 

“It is in a transparent coffin,” he says. 

I never see any of these, though I hear Stinky Raf- 
felario is buried in one when he catches his slugs last 
year. 

“Ye can see but cannot touch it,” he remembers. 

All at once I get it. 

“It's 'under glass,” I tell him. “In a museum.” 
“Glass?” 

“Never mind what that is,” I say. “Sure — guards. 
House of the Past. It's in a museum in town.” 

I tell him what a museum is, and then start thinking. 
“First thing to do is get a line on where it is. Then 
we can figure out how to pull the snatch.” 

“Snatch?” 

“Steal it, Pal. Say — do you know what it looks like ?” 
“Verily. Merlin described it in utmost detail, lest I 
err and procure a spurious Tabouret.” 



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“Good. Give me a line on it, will you?” 

“Why, it is but a wooden tray of rough boards, with 
four short legs set at the corners. Brown is its hue, 
and it spans scarce four hands in height. Plain it is, 
without decoration or adornment, for it was but crudely 
fashioned by the good Cappadocian Fathers.” 

“So,” I say. “I think maybe I have a notion. Wait, 
here,” I 'tell him, “and improve your education.” 

And I hand him a copy of a movie magazine. • I go 
down to the cellar, and. when I come up after a while. 
Sir Pallagyn comes clanking up to me, all excited. 

“Pray, and who is this fair damsel?” he asks, point- 
ing out a shot of Ann Sothern in a bathing suit. “She 
has verily the appearance of the Lady of the Lake,” he 
remarks. “Albeit with more . . . more — ” 

“You said it, Pal,” I agree. “Much more, in spades. 
But here — does this look like the table you're after ?” 
“Od's blood, it is the very thing ! From whence didst 
thou procure it?” 

“Why it's nothing but a piece of old furniture I find 
laying down jn the basement. A footstool, but I knock 
the stuffing out of it and scrape off some varnish. . Now, 
all you got to do is get this Merlin to wave his wand 
and call you back, and you hand him over the goods. 
He will never catch wise,” I say, “and it will save us a 
lot of trouble.” 

Pallagyn's puss falls in a little and he starts chewing 
his red mustache again. 

“I fear, Sir Butch, thy ethics are not of the highest. 

I am aquest, nor could I present a spurious Tabouret in 
sight of mine own conscience.” 

So I see I am in for it. Of course it will be easy for 
me to tell this tin can to go chase his quest, but somehow 
I feel I owe him a good turn. 

“I will work things out in a jiffy, Pal. You just go 
out and put your nag in the stable, and when you come 
back, I will have things fixed up.” 

“On thy honor?” he says, smiling all of a sudden. 
“Sure. Shake.” 

He shakes until his armor rattles; 

“Never mind,” 1^ say. “Take care of the nag and 
leave it to me.” 

He clunks out and I get busy on the phone. 

When he comes back I am set. 

“Come on out and hop in the truck,” I invite. “We 
are on our way to pick up that furniture for you.” 
“Indeed? Then we really quest together, Sir Butch?” 
“Don't ask any questions,” I remark. “On your 
way.” " • ** 

I notice he fumbles with that movie magazine a min- 
ute, and when he sees me looking he blushes, v 

“I wouldst carry the image of this fair lady, as is the 
custom of the quest,” he admits, tucking the picture of 
Ann Sothern in his helmet, so only her* legs stick out 
over his forehead. 

“O. K. by me, Pal. But come on, we got a drive 
ahead of us.” - ' 

I grab up a pint, the fake Tabouret, and a glass cut- 
ter ; head for the truck, and we’re off. 

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It is a long drive, and I have plenty of time to explain 
the lay of the land to Sir .Pallagyn. I . tell him how I 
call the museum and find out if they have this table in 
hock. Then I hang up and call back in a different voice, 
telling them that I am an express man with a suit of 
armor on hand for them which I will send over. 

“Pretty neat, eh, Pal?” I ask. 

“But I do not comprehend. How did you talk to the 
museum if it is in the city and—” 

I do not understand the telephone so good myself, 
because I never see the movie “Young Tom Edison” or 
whatever, so I just pass it over. 

“I am a wizard myself,” I let it go. 

“Still, I fail to perceive the plan. What place has 
armor in a House of the Past ?” 

. “Why, it's a relic. Don’t you know nobody wears 
armor no more? It's all bulletproof' vests.” 

“Still, how doth that contrive for us to— snatch — the 
Tabouret?” 

“Don't you get it? I’ll carry you into the museum 
like an empty suit of armor. Then we will spot this 
Tabouret, I will set you down in a corner, and when 
the joint closes up you can snatch it very quick indeed. 
You can use this glass cutter to get it out, substitute this 
fake furniture in the case, and nobody will be hep to it 
the next morning. Simple.” 

“By're Lady, 'tis a marvel of cunning !” 

I admit it sounds pat myself. But I notice we are 
now coming into some traffic, so I stop the truck and 
say, “From now on you are nothing but a suit of armor 
with nothing inside. You climb into the back of the 
truck so citizens will not give you the queer eye, and 
lie quiet. When we get to the museum I will drag you 
out, and you just hold still. Remember?” 

“Verily.” 

So Pallagyn hops into the back of the truck and lies 
down and I head into the city. Before I get too far I 
take myself a couple of quick ones because I am a little 
nervous, being so long since I pulled a job. 

I am not exactly floating but my feet do not touch 
bottom when we get downtown. Which is why I acci- 
dentally touch a fender of the car ahead of me when we 
stop in traffic. In fact I touch it so that it drops off. , 
It is a big black job, and an old Whitey with a mean- 
looking puss opens the door and leans out and says : 
“Here now, you ruffian!” 

“Who are you calling a ruffian, you bottie-nosed old 
baboon ?” I answer, hoping to pass it off quiet. 

“Aaaaargh!” says Whitey, climbing out of his buggy. 
“Come along, Jefferson, and help me deal with this 
hoodlum.” 

It is funny he should call me such when I feel sure he 
never sets peepers on me before in his life, but then it is 
a small world. And the chauffeur that hauls out after 
him. is much too big to be running around in a small 
world. He is not only big but mean-looking, and he 
comes marching right at me along with old Whitey. . 

“Why don't you go away and soak your feet ?” I sug- 
gest, still wanting to be diplomatic and avoid trouble. 
But Whitey does not go for my good advice. 

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“Let me have the number of your license,” he growls. 
“I am going to do something about reckless drivers that 
smash into cars.” 

“Yeah,” says the big chauffeur, sticking his red face 
into the window. ^“Maybe this fellow would slow down 
a little if he was* driving with a couple of black eyes.” 
“Now wait a minute,” I suggest, “I am very sorry 
if I bump into you and lose my temper, but I am on my 
way to the museum in a hurry with a rush order. If 
you look in the back of the truck, you will see a suit of 
armor I am delivering there.” 

As it turns out this is not such a hot suggestion at 
that. Because when I see Whitey and the chauffeur 
marching at me I have presence of mind to toss the 
whiskey bottle in the back of the truck. And now Sir 
Pallagyn has got a gander at it, so when Whitey hangs 
his nose over the side, there is Pal taking a snifter. 

When he sees the old guy coming he stops still with 
his arm in the air, snapping his visor down with -the bot- 
tle in his mouth. 

“Here, what’s this?” snaps Whitey. 

“Huh?” 

“What’s that bottle doing stuck in the visor of this 
helmet? And what’s making the arm hold on to it?” 

“I don’t know, mister. That’s how I find it when I 
unpack it this morning.” * 

“Something wrong,” insists old Whitey. “They 
didn’t drink whiskey way back then.” 

“It’s pretty old whiskey,” I tell him. 

“I’ll vouch for .that,” he says, real nasty, “if your 
breath is any indication. T think you ought to be run 
in for drunken driving.” 

“Say,” pipes up Jefferson, the big chauffeur. “Maybe 
this mug doesn’t even own the truck like he says. He 
might have stole this armor.” 

Whitey smiles like a desk sergeant. “I never thought 
of that. Now, sir” — and he wheels or me fast — “if you 
know so much about this particular bit of armor, per- 
haps you can tell me the name of its original- wearer.” 
“Why . , . why ... Sir Pallagyn of the Round Table,” 
I stammer. 

“Pallagyn? Pallagyn? Never heard of him,” snaps 
Whitey. “He never sat at the Round Table.” 

“He was always under it,” I say. “He was a lush.” 
“Preposterous !• This is all a fraud of some sort.” 
“Look!” Jefferson yells. “The whiskey!” 

We all look around, and sure enough the whiskey is 
disappearing from the bottle because Pallagyn is gar- 
gling it down very quiet. 

“Fraud!” says Whitey, again, and taps the helmet 
with his cane. 

“Come on, where you steal this from?” growls Jeffer- 
son, grabbing me by the collar. And Whitey keeps hit- 
ting the helmet. 

“Desist, by blessed St. George!” roars Pallagyn/sit- 
ting up. “Desist, ere I let air through thy weasand, 
thou aged conskiter !” 

Whitey stands there with the cane in the air and his 



mouth is open wide enough to hang, a canary in. Pal 
sees the cane and grabs for his sword. 

“A joust, is it?” he. yells. 

And all around us the citizens are honking their horns 
and staring out startled like, but when they see Pallagyn 
standing up and waving his pocketknife they drive away’ 
very fast in high. 

“Robot!” mumbles Whitey. 

“Rodent, am I ?” and Pallagyn begins 'to slice away 
at Whitey’s breadbasket. 

“Hey!” yells the chauffeur, dropping me. “Cut 
that!” He makes a dive for the knight, but he sees 
him climbing up into the truck and bops him with the 
whiskey bottle. The big guy falls down and sits still. 
Whitey dances around for a minute and then runs for 
his car. ‘ 

“I am a trustee of the museum,” he bawls. “And 
whatever that thing is, it isn’t going on display. Witch- 
craft, that’s what it is!” 

Now this is a fine time for a bluecoat to show up, 
but when he does I quick-motion to Pal to hold still 
ahd grab the duckfoot by the collar. 

“This guy and his chauffeur back into me,” I say. 
“And if you smell the chauffeur you see he is drunk; 
as a matter of fact he is passed out. That old bird is 
also a lush, but me,” and I step on the gas, “I am in a 
hurry to deliver this armor to a museum, and I* do not 
wish to_ press charges.” 

“Hey — ” says the beat daddy, but I pull away fast. 
I am around the corner before he has time to cry 
“Wolf !” and I take it up several alleys. 

Meanwhile I bawl out Pallagyn in all suits. 

“From now on,” I tell him, “you don’t make a move, 
no matter what happens. Understand?” 

“Hie,” says Pallagyn. 

“The only way I can get you into the museum is for 
you to be quiet and lay limp,” I say. 

“Hie” 

“And stop those hiccups or it’s good-by quest !” 

“Hie” 

“Here we are,” I tell him, pulling up in back of the 
big gray building, into the loading zone. 

“Hie” 

“Shut your trap,” I snarl. 

Pallagyn pulls down his visor. 

“No, wait.” He is still hiccuping, so I yank his 
plume off and stuff it into his mouth. 

“Now be quiet and leave it to me,” I say. I get the 
table under one arm and slip the glass cutter into one 
pocket. Then I open the back of the truck and slide 
Pallagyn down the ramp to the ground. 

“Ugh! Oooof !” he groans, under his helmet. 

• “Sh! Here we go!” 

It is not so easy to drag Pallagyn along by the arms, 
but I manage to hoist him up the platform and get him 
past the door. There is a guard standing there. 

“New armor,” I tell him. “Where is your hardware 
department ?” 

“Funny. Nobody told me to expect a delivery. Oh, 



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UNKNOWN WORLDS 



well, I'll let you set it up. Dr. Peabody will probably 
arrange to place it tomorrow.” 

He looks at me, all red in the puss, trying to drag 
Pallagyn along. 

“Funny it should be so weighty. I thought armor 
was light.” 

“This baby must be wearing heavy underwear,” I 
tell him. “How about giving me a hand?” 

He helps lift Pallagyn and we carry him. through a 
lot of halls into a big room. 

There are a lot of suits of armor standing around the 
walls, and several are hanging on wires from the ceiling, 
but I see something else and let out a snort. 

Sure enough, in the center of the room is a glass case, 
and inside it is standing a little table just like the one I 
have under my arm. 

I set the thing down and the guard notices it for the 
first time. 

“What you got here ?” he asks. 

“The armor is supposed to stand on it,” I explain. 
“It comes with the set.” 

“Oh. Well, just stand it up against the wall. I got 
to get back to the door.” 

And he goes away. I take a quick gander up and 
down and see the place is deserted. It is getting dark 
and I figure it is closing time already. 

“Here we are,” I whisper. f 

“Hie” says Pallagyn. 

He opens his visor and takes a look at the Tabouret. 
“Verily, it is that for which. I seek,” he whispers. 
“My thanks, a thousandfold.” 

“Forget it. Now all you got to do . is wait till it gets 
a little darker, then make the snatch.” 

I go up to the case and tap it. 

“Why,” I say, “this is real luck. It opens from the 
back and .you don’t even have to use the glass cutter.” 
But Pallagyn is not paying any attention. He is 
looking around at the armor on the walls. 

“Gawain !” he snorts. 

“What?” 

“ ’Tis the veritable armor of Sir Gawain !” he yaps. 
“One of the Brotherhood of the Round Table.” 

^ “You don’t say!” 

“Aye- — and yonder stands the coat of mail of Sir 
Sagramore ! Indeed! ’ I recognize the main of Elde- 
ford, he that is cousin to Sir Kay. And Maligaint — ” 
He is rattling off the names of old friends, clanking 
around and tapping the tin, but it all looks like a bunch 

of spare parts in a hot car hide-out to me. 

• 0 - 

“I am among friends,” he chuckles. 

“Yeah ? Don’t be too sure. If these museum babies 
^ever find out what you’re up to, it’s goodrby. quest. Now 
get to work, quick. I got to be going back.” I push 
him over to the case. “I'll, watch the door for you in 
case anyone is coming, ” v I whisper. “You switch the 
Tabourets. Snap into it.”. 

So I stand there, and Pallagyn makes for the case, 
trying not to clank too loud. It is dark and quiet, and 
creepy. 



Pallagyn gets the case open in no time, but he has 
trouble in hauling out the Tabouret, because it is nailed 
down. 

He is grunting and yanking on it and I am shaking 
because he is maybe going to rouse a guard. 

“I cannot say much for this guy Merlin,” I comment. 
“He is supposed to help you knights over the hard 
spots, but I do not notice he has done you a good turn 
yet” 

“Nay, I have thee to thank for my success,” says Pal- 
lagyn. “For, lo, my quest is ended !” 

And he rips the Tabouret loose and slides the other 
one in. Then he closes the glass again and marches 
over across the room. 

Only right in the middle of it he lets out a squawk 
and falls down on the stone floor when his foot slips. 

There is a loud crash like all hell was breaking loose. 

It does. - , 

Guys are yelling down the hall and I hear feet run- 
ning this way. I get over to Pallagyn and help him up, 
but just as I am easing him onto his feet a squad of 
guards charges into the room and the heat is very 
much on. 

“Stop, thief!” yells the guy in the lead, and the whole 
gang charges down on us. Pallagyn is trying to stand 
still again and I am yanking open a window, but when 
he sees them coming, Pal lets out a whoop and drops 
the Tabouret, waving his sword around. 

“Stand back ere I skewer thy livers!” he howls. 
Then he turns to me. “Make haste. Sir Butch, and ef- 
fect thy escape whilst I told off yon varlets.” 

“Give me that,” I say, grabbing at the sword. “I’ll 
hold them off and you get out of here and gallop back 
to your Merlin with the Bank Nite prize.” 

“There he is, men!” yells a new voice. Coming 
through the door is none other than old Whitey in per- 
son, and behind him are about eight cops. Then the 
cops are ahead of him, because they are coming for us, 
fast. A fat sergeant has his gun extremely out. 

“Pendragon and England !” yells Pallagyn, patting 
the first cop on his bald spot with the flat side of his 
sword. 

“Hell and damnation !” bawls the sergeant. He lets 
go a slug, which bounces off the helmet. 

“Superman !” hollers another cop. 

“Get him, boys !” screams Whitey. 

It is a picnic without ants. I plant one on the ser- 
geant’s neck, and Pal wades in with his sword. 'But 
the other six push us back into a corner* and the guards 
come up behind them. As- fast as we knock them down, 
the others close in. They swarm over us like a gang 
of Airdales on a garbage heap. .. * 

“Here we go,” I gasp out, punching away. 

; “Be of good . . . uh . . . heart !” roars Pallagyn. He 
slices away. All at once he slips and the sword falls. 
And two coppers jump him before he can get up. The 
sergeant gets his gun out again, and points it at me. 

he says. The boys grab us and push 



“Now then — ” 
us forward. 

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All at once Pallagyn closes his eyes. "Merlin 1” he 
whispers. “Aid!'" 

Something very unusual happens here. The first 
thing I notice is a lot of clanking, and scraping coming 
from the dark corners of the room. 

And then .there is more noise, like Pallagyn’s armor 
makes, only louder. 

"For Arthur and England !” Pallagyn yells. "Ga- 
wain, Sagramore, Eldevord, Maligaint! — " 

"Aye, we come !" 

Out of the dark crashes a half dozen suits of armor; 
but there are men in them now. It is the armor from 
the walls, and I see Pallagyn’s gang is here. 

"Merlin sent help!" he grunts. And. then he grabs 
his sword and wades in. 

The others are whacking up the cops already, and 
there is a smashing of tinware. Some of the duckfeet 
are running and the guards make for the door. As 
fast as they get there, the suits of armor hanging on the 
walls drop down on their necks and throw them. 

In a minute it is all over. 

Pallagyn stands in the center of the room holding the 
Tabouret and all the guys in armor huddle around him. 

"The quest is over/ 1 he says. "Thanks to Merlin, 
and Sir Butch, here — " 

But I am not here any more. I am sneaking out of 
the window, fast, because I have had enough trouble 
and do not like to get mixed up in hocus-pocus or ma- 
gician's unions. So I do not stay, but drop over the 
ledge. 

Before I do so I think I see a flash of lightning or 
something, but cannot be sure. Anyway, I look around 
once more and see the museum room is empty. There 
are a lot of cops lying on the floor and a lot of empty 
suits of armor are standing around, but there is nothing 
in them. I look for Pallagyn's suit and it is gone. So 
I blink my eyes and head for the truck, which I drive 
the hell away from there. 

That is how it is, and I do a lot of thinking on my 
way home. Also the air helps to sober me up and I re- 

THE 



member that I have been practically drunk all the time 
since morning. 

In fact, I am drunk since before I meet this Pallagyn 
if I ever do meet him and it is not my imagination. 

Because when I look back in the museum I do not 
see him any more and I wonder if it is all something I 
- dream up out of air and alcohol. It bothers me, and I 
know that whatever happens at the museum will not 
leak out in print, because cops are touchy about such 
matters and as far as they know nothing is stolen. 

Then I figure maybe Thin Tommy Malloon can tell 
me if Ldrop in, so on the way home I park the car at 
his tavern and step inside. 

Nobody is behind the bar but Bertram, and when he 
sees me he is very polite. 

"I would like to speak with Thin Tommy," I say. 

Bertram gulps. "He is upstairs lying down," he 
says. "In fact he does not feel so chipper since you bop 
him in the belly this morning." 

"What do you mean / bop him?" I ask. "My buddy 
does that." 

"You come in alone," Bertram tells me. He gives 
me a long look, but there are customers in the joint so 
I just shrug and walk out. 

So the rest of the way home I am no better off, be- 
cause I figure either Bertram is lying to me or I am 
nuts. And right now I would just as soon be a little 
nuts as admit anything so screwy could happen. 

Which is how it stands with me. I am sober, and I 
am done with chasing around for the day. If I lay off 
drinking shellac, I will not see any more knights in 
armor with dopey stories about magicians and quests. 
I will let bygones be bygones and be a good boy. 

That suits me, so I back the car into the garage. 

And then I get out and start cursing all over again. 

All at once I know for sure whether or not it all hap- 
pens. 

Because standing there in the garage is that dizzy 
nag with the mask over the head that I have Sir Pal- 
lagyn put into the stable. 

Do you know anybody, who wants to buy a horse, 
cheap ? 

END. 




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jf i \ \'v v 

l > VI A- 




- 

u v 



Hr ‘ V ‘ 

pf- 



PRESCIENCE 



By Nelson S, Bond 

• The doctor was mentally balanced because he had no fear of any 
afterlife; he knew there was none. Tales to scare children, no more— 



Illustrated by Edd Cartier 



His visitor said fearfully, “It's that way whenever 
I'm in a crowded room, doctor. Or if I walk down a 
street at noon hour. Sometimes I want to. scream and 
kick and fight my way clear of the throng that binds 
me in—” 

Dr. Barton said, “Yes. Yes, I quite understand.” 
But his tone was not entirely sympathetic. - It was 
brusque, hurried, impatient. He said, “Mr. Peebles, I 
am going to give you these tablets. Keep them on your 
person. Whenever you feel one of these , . er . . . 
nervous attacks coming on, take a tablet.” 

“I . . . I'm afraid you don't quite understand, doctor. 
I don't need sedatives. There's nothing wrong with me 



physically. I’ve been examined thoroughly, by expert 
diagnosticians. And I — ” ' . 

“My dear Mr. Peebles!” Dr. Barton rose. “Be- 
lieve me when I say I understand your case perfectly. 
If you will just confide your fears to my keeping — ” 

He let his words dwindle off. The patient colored, 
impressed. He scraped his chair backward, picked up 
the tablets and faltered toward the door. 

“Yes, doctor. I didn't mean to offend you. If you 
think I’ll be all right — ” • 

"Of course, Mr. Peebles. Now, you may return 
Thursday, -if you will. Good day, sir.” . 

The visitor ducked out. Dr. Barton’s eyes filmed, 




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'v 



PRESCIENCE 



77 



mirroring the distaste he felt. For a lingering moment 
he continued to stare at the door panel. Then he 
dropped into his chair, muttering petulantly. 

Dr. Barton was quite fed up with neurotics. And 
that was particularly awkward because he — Dr. Homer 
Barton — was numbered among the town's most eminent 
and accomplished psychiatrists. 

Into his soothing, apple-green walled office, during 
the past twelve years, had crept a steady stream of pa- 
tients suffering an infinitude of mental ailments. He 
had seen, and spoken with, and treated all kinds from 
mild claustrophobiacs to weeping persecutionists. 

Ofttimes his quiet, competent manner had brought 
about cures. At other times he had succeeded in arrest- 
ing partly developed cases. He had known failure, too. 
The big, white hospital on the Hill held some of them ; 
held them in thickly padded rooms, behind doors barred 
with steel. 

But Dr. Barton was utterly fed up with neurotic peo- 
ple. He voiced his grievance, now, to the nurse who 
had opened the door and was silently waiting his atten- 
tion. 

"Tools, Miss Allen!” he snapped. ""They're fools — 
the whole lot of them! Neuroses — bah! 1 Phobias and 
complexes — bah! Fundamentally, there is but one 

thing that bothers all of them. Fear !” 

Miss Allen said, ""Yes, doctor. There is a — ” 

""Fear!” repeated Dr. Barton bitterly. ""And do you 
know what it is they fear, Miss Allen? I do. It is not 
open or closed spaces. Animals or sharp points or 
height. Heat or cold or any of those multitudinous 
things they whine and complain to me about. Those 
are but substitutes ; manifestations of the one basic fear 
that possesses all of them. 

.* ‘"They fear, Miss Allen — death $ Twelve years in this 
horrible occupation has convinced me that there is but 
one factor underlying all the complexes and phobias of 
my patients. They are afraid to die. And since their 
puny minds refuse to acknowledge the cause of their 
fear,- their subconscious gives them a palliative. A sec- 
ondary fear to supplant the real one they dare not name, 
even to themselves !” 

Miss Allen _ nodded understanding^. She said, 
""Then that should make their cure even more simple, 
doctor. Or am I ’too optimistic?” 

“Barring physiological defects,” continued Barton, 
musing, ""little children are completely sane. Why? 
Because they do not fear death. There is relatively lit- 
tle insanity among aborigines; the so-called "backward' 
or "pagan’ people. Nor among the laboring classes of 
our race. 

"7 would never become a mental case, Miss Allen, be- 
cause I am a fundamentalist. I do not needlessly tor- 
ture myself with vain ponderings on my after life. I 
accept, calmly and as a matter of fact, the credo that 
the real "I' is everlasting; imperishable. 

""With this comfort, with the assurance that death 
holds no horrors for me, my mind is balanced.” 

He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. 

‘"Excuse me,” he said. ""I did not mean to bother 



you with my annoyance, but I am so everlastingly w.eary 
of soothing frightened people — ” 

Nurse Allen knew her employer’s moods perfectly. 
“Yes, doctor,” she said. “There is a Mrs. Williams 
waiting. Shall I show her in?” 

“Not today,” _said Barton. “Ask her to come back 
tomorrow. I’m tired.” 

""But if you'll excuse me, doctor, she’s been waiting 
more than an hour — ” 

Barton shrugged. After all, this was his business. 
A business which paid him handsomely. 

. “Oh, very well !” he said resignedly. “Show her in.” 
“Yes, sir.” The nurse vanished. When the door 
opened softly, a few seconds later, Dr. Barton's ire had 
completely disappeared. He was a living model of com- 
placency ; a twentieth century soothsayer sitting behind 
a soft, rubbed walnut desk, hands folded before him with 
the smooth quietude of a reflecting Buddha. He rose 
as his patient entered. 

• “Mrs. Williams? Please be seated.” 

She was a drab little woman. For a moment he 
could not help wondering where she had heard of him, 
or even if he had been wise in admitting her. Her 
clothes were definitely not Fifth Avenue. Her hands 
were work-coarsened and red. A shopgirl, possibly, or 
somebody's cook. She could never afford to pay Dr. 
Barton's prices if this were so — 

“I came to see you, doctor,” she said, “because I could 
not stay away any longer. And my employer, Mrs. 
Rand, said you were wonderful at solving troubles of 
the — mind ?” 

""Mrs. Rand? Dr. Barton remembered her dimly. 
An elderly woman with nervous indigestion. Her trou- 
ble, treated by a general practitioner, was late hours and 
overrich food. Dr. Barton had given it a fancy name — 
he had long since learned the layman's love for poly- 
syllables— and suggested a course in Yoga. The Yoga 
concept had given Mrs. Rand something to think about. 
The enforced rigidity of diet had effected a cure. 

“Yes/ Mrs. Williams. And your trouble — ■?” 

The little woman twisted a handkerchief nervously. 

“I ... I see things, doctor. I see them before they 
actually happen.” 

Dr. Barton's face remained placid, but he yawned 
mentally. There were no variations in this job. Only 
the same recurrent themes, over and over again. But 
he said politely, ""Yes? Go on, please.” 

“It is something with which I have been gifted — or 
cursed — ever since I was-a little girl. But lately it has 
happened with such frequency, almost every time I go to 
bed, as a matter of fact', that it ... it frightens me. 

“I have dreams — but they are not dreams. For 
within a few weeks, or a few days, that scene which is 
so clear to me in my dream actually happens i” 

She looked at him hopefully. “Did you ever hear of 
anything like that before ?” 

Dr. Barton avoided answering. Of course he had. 
Everyone had. But he said, noncommittally, “Please 
go on.” 



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UNKNOWN WORLDS 



“Three nights ago, for instance, I dreamed that I was “Is it . . . does it mean anything, doctor?’' asked the 



in a strange room. A room I had never seen before in 
( my life. It was the drawing room of a large house, and 
somehow I was aware that I had come after something. 

“As I was wondering what this thing was, a strange 
lady appeared in the doorway. She held out to me an 
oblong box. 

T< 'Can you identify this?’ she asked. 

“Til -try, ma’am/ I said. I opened the box. In it 
lay a pair of white evening gloves which belonged to my 
mistress, Mrs. Rand. . / 

“ 'Yes, ma’am/ I said in my dream. 'These belong 
to Mrs. Rand/. 

“ 'Then you may take them to her/ said the strange 
lady. 'And here’s a little gift for your trouble/ And 
she gave me a dollar bill. I remember it, particularly 
because it had — 1 Here, I’ll show you !” 

Mrs. Williams dug into a worn handbag ; brought out 
a dollar bill which she passed across the desk to the doc- 
tor.. Barton looked at it. 

“That red ink blot.” said Mrs. Williams. “That was 
the identifying mark on the dollar bill the lady gave me 
in. my dream.” 

Barton handed back the bill. He said, “But you got 
this bill where, Mrs. Williams?” 

“This morning,” said the little woman, “Mrs. Rand 
was very excited.' Last night at the opera.she mislaid 
her evening gloves. She telephoned an advertisement 
to the newspapers at once. 

“Early this afternoon, she received a call from a lady 
in Westchester. A perfect stranger. And since Thomas, 
the chauffeur, had driven Mr. Rand downtown, Mrs. 
Rand asked me to go out after the gloves.” 

.“Arid then—?” . 

“When I got there,” said Mrs. Williams, “into that 
house, I knew instantly it was the one I had visited in 
my dream two nights before. I even knew what was 
going to happen. But I couldn’t do anything about it. 

“It was a dreadful feeling. . I felt captive; bound by a 
chain too strong for breaking. I saw the lady, strange 
no longer, appear in the doorway. I watched her lips 
open as if fascinated. I knew she was going to say, 
'Can you identify this ?’ — and she did. I knew what I 
was going to say. And I tried to stop myself; to say 
. something different. Somehow I had an idea if I could 
only change the words, something important would 
come about—” , 

“Well?” said Barton. 

' Mrs. Williams shook her head miserably. “It was 
no use. The words came from my lips and I couldn’t 
stop them. I said, 'Yes,. ma’am. These-belong to. Mrs. 
Rand—’” 

Dr. Barton tried hard not to frown. He was more 
than ever disgusted with his occupation. The same old 
groove, over and over again. Escape mechanisms! A 
drab little woman, dissatisfied with her lot, knowing 
that she would soon leave this earth. Who subcon- 
sciously projected her servile present into the past, at- 
tributing todierself strange powers — 



little woman fearfully. 

Dr. Barton’s impatience rose suddenly. After all, 
this was no wealthy patient who must be cajoled and 
deferred to and handled, with kid gloves. He said: 

“Mrs. Williams, yours is not at all an unusual case. 
The phenomenon which troubles you is as old' as the 
history of mankind, has been studied and discussed 
since the days of the first doctors. 

“I think I should tell you that, despite what you may 
think, you did not dream this first, then have the event 
happen . to you. Actually, you experienced what the 
philosopher, Henri Bergson, calls 'the memory" of the 
present/ # 

“This is what happened. You entered a strange 
house. You were a trifle tired, or hungry, or affected 
by a touch of the sun. Possibly excited by an unaccus- 
tomed responsibility. However that may be, your nerv- 
ous system suffered a momentary synapse — a breaking 
of the nervous current, as an electrical current may be 
disturbed by a bolt of lightning. 

“That brief fraction of a second sufficed to erase from 
your mind, completely, all which had gone before. Thus, 
when you .. . er . . . snapped out of your mental hiatus, 
it seemed to you that you had 'been through this scene 
before/ While actually, it was the first time you had 
ever witnessed it.” 

The little woman wrung her handkerchief annoyingly. 

“But . . . but, doctor,” she cried. /'The dollar bill? 
I remembered it from the dream.” 

Dr. Barton said, “Nonsense ! The human mind re- 
members, consciously, that, which it wishes to remember. 
You say you have this experience often. Has it ever 
occurred to you to rise from your sleep and write down 
one of these episodes ? So that later you might check 
the dream against a happening ?” 

“No, sir. I never remember the dream until the scene 
is presented — ” 

“Exactly ! In other words, it is just what I told you 
it was.” Dr. Barton rose. “If you will take my advice, 
Mrs. Williams, it would be well for you to stop worry- 
ing.” 

“Worrying, doctor?” Mrs. Williams rose uncer- 
tainly. “But I’m not worrying about anything. I have 
sufficient money for my needs. I have no children. 
I—” 

“I strongly suspect, madam,” said Barton caustically, 
“you are worrying about the salvation of your soul. 
You fear the afterworld. Therein lies your reason for 
dreaming these strange daydreams. Good day, Mrs. 
Williams:” • * 

The little woman flushed. She scrabbled in her old 
handbag. There were tears in her eyes; Dr. Barton 
saw them not with compassion, but with annoyance. 

“There is no charge, Mrs. Williams,” he said gruffly. 
“It has been a pleasure to be able to tell someone the 
cold truth for a change. The truth that most people 
are cowards.” 

“Yes, doctor,” said the little woman humbly. Then, 
halfway to the door, “But if I have one of these experi- 



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PRESCIENCE 



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ences again — ? Is there anything I should do?” 
“There is nothing. You must not — ” 

Dr. Barton stopped suddenly. Never had his ex- 
asperation been so great. Now a great thought came to 
him. He had no wealthy client in this patient. Why 
not use her as a guinea pig ? At one time allay her fears 
for evermore — and prove his own theory. His brow 
cleared. He smiled. 

“Mrs. Williams?” he said. 

The woman turned hopefully. “Yes, doctor?” 

“You say you have these dreams frequently?” 

“Yes, sir.” ' 

“Good. Then come with me. I think I can cure 
your case.” 

It was to his smaller office that he led her. There he 
had a small cot for invalid patients ; a number of im- 
pressive machines used in treating those whose cases 
demanded imposing paraphernalia. 

“Lie down, Mrs. Williams,” he said. Gone was Dr. 
Barton's impatience now. He was once, again the suave 
psychiatrist, handling with smooth deftness a nerve- 
wracked victim of strain. “Right here. That's right. 

“Now — relax. Stretch if you want to. Ease all your 
muscles. There — that's right. Look up, now, please — ” 
He snapped a switch. In the quiet gloom of the 
room one tiny light began to flicker. A many-faceted 
globe in the machine which was suspended just over 
the patient’s head. It swirled into motion. The facets 
caught the light, shifted them into dancing colors. 

“Don’t look away, Mrs. Williams. Look at the light. 
There — that's right. See how soothing it is ? So pleas- 
ant. So relaxing. And you are tired . . . tired . . . ter- 
ribly tired — " 

There was no sound save the somewhat heavier 
breathing of the patient. The distant hum of the ma- 
chine. Dr. Barton spoke again in a whisper. 

“Now you are sleeping . . . sleeping. Aren't you, 
Mrs. Williams?” 

The little woman's voice was like a wisp from far 
away. ^ 

“I ... am sleeping — ” 

Dr. Barton smiled sardonically. There was no prob- 
lem here. She was more susceptible than most to hyp- 
notism. That indicated a receptive will. No wonder 
she had been prey to these repetitive dreams. 

He said, “Are you dreaming now, Mrs. Williams. 
Tell me your dream?” 

“I am . . . dreaming . . . doctor.” 

“fell me.” 

The woman's voice was slow, faltering, unaccented. 

“I am ... in my room. It is night ... I think . . . 
because the lights are on. But not ... for long. I am 
, , . getting ready for bed . , . now I am turning off the 
lights — ” 

There was a long silence. Dr. Barton said, “And 
now, Mrs. Williams?” 

“It is dark . . . but there is a light from the street 
lamp outside. I am . . . shifting . , . turning. I am rest- 
less. It seems there is something ... I am trying to 



remember . . . something important. But I cannot quite 
. . . remember what it is — ” 

Again silence. Barton smiled. He persisted, “Yes?” 
“I do not know ... I am asleep . . . now — ” 

Barton almost laughed aloud. Asleep ! That should 
amuse his fellow psychiatrists. He had hypnotized a 
woman into believing she was asleep! Sleep within 
sleep — 

Despite himself, he started. For suddenly from Mrs. 
Williams' throat had burst a gasp; a startled cry. 
Swiftly he touched her pulse. It was strong ; almost too 
strong. It was pounding as though from panic. 

“Yes, Mrs. Williams ?” he purred excitedly; “A 
dream has come to you?” 

“No! No! I am awake again! There is redness 
... in my room. It is . . . fire !* I can . . . feel the heat !” 
Her voice rose. “I am . . . climbing out of my bed. 

I . . . run to the door , . . but the panels are . . . too hot. 

I dare not . . . open it — 

“Now lam... running to the window, I . . . throw 
it . ♦ . open. I climb out. The fire escape ... is cold 
against . . . my bare feet — ” 

Dr. Barton nodded silently. Strange how detailed 
these fear dreams were. Fire, now. That was a con- 
vincing proof of his theory. Had not mankind, from 
time immemorable, conjoined thoughts of heat and 
flame with their dread of the afterworld? Like the 
others, this little woman feared death. And with that 
fear in her subconscious, she dreamed such dreams as 
this— 

Her voice went on ; harsh with horror. 

“I hear ... the wailing of sirens . . . and the screams 
... of people in the streets . . . below. I am . . . climb- 
ing down the . . . fire escape now. A burst of flame 
. . . licks from one of the windows . . . and scorches 
my . . . hands. 

“But I am nearing . . . safety. . . . The crackling of 
fire . . . sounds in my ears . . . and I am panting. . . . 
Just a few' more . . . steps — ” 

Dr. Barton frowned. He saw, now, what he must 
, do. He must teach this woman, once and for all, that 
dreams * are not harmful things. That this fire, this 
flame, this awful heat and the fear of impending death 
lived only in her mind. He .spoke curtly. 

“Do you hear me, Mrs. Williams?” 

“The house is crumbling . . . into ruin — ” A pause ; 
a shifting of the head as though hearing a far-away 
sound! “I . . ♦ hear you . . . doctor — ” 

“You must not avoid. this fire,” said Barton crisply. ■ 
“It cannot hurt you. It is but a dream ; a hallucina- 
tion. I tell you, you aie lying in your bed, asleep. This 
is only a dream.” 

“A . . . dream?” 

“Yes. Only a dream, Mrs. Williams. Now you must 
go back into the house. * Is there a window near you ?” 
“There is ... a window ... but from it leap . . . red 
tongues of . . . flame. The heat burns me . , . even as 
I wait — ” 

“You mu£t go in the window!” said Barton firmly. 



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“I command you to go into the window.. The fire will 
turn cool before you. You will not be harmed ! Go in!” 
Before him, the little woman's* body twisted as if in an 
agony of indecision. . 

“I . . . cannot . . . doctor.” 

“You must! Enter the window!” 

“Yes . . . doctor.” A brief silence. Then, “I am . . . 
entering . . . the window. But it is hot ... now the fire 
... the great flames— Ooooh!” 

Her scream shattered the throbbing silence of the 
room into tattered fragments of sound. Despite himself, 
Barton felt a shudder course coldly through him. There 
was stark agony in that scream. Torment and fear and 
anguish. But he steeled himself to speak. ^ 

“You see, Mrs. Williams? There was nothing to fear. 
You are safe. You are all right now ?” 

Only the faint humming of the machine. The distant 
sound of the woman's labored breathing. Dr. Barton 
spoke again, sharply. • . „ 

“You are all right now ?” ... 

• And then the answer. In a dreary voice. A toneless 
voice. “I am . . . all right . , . now.” 

“Good. There is no heat?” 

“There is ... no heat.” 

“Now you will return to your room. Find your bed, 
lie down in it. Sleep once more.” 

Brief silence. Then, “I cannot find . . . my room. I 
cannot find . . . my bed — ” 

“Then you are still dreaming, Mrs. Williams. What 
is your dream. now? What do you see?” ' \ 

“There is ... no heat. ' I cannot find . . . my room. 
It is dark. I am still dreaming. I see nothing . . . in 
my dream . . . but writhing darkness. I stand alone . . . 
on a vast,, empty plain, -But I am not alone. Mists 
surround me. And out of the mists — ” 

Dr. Barton was startled at what happened , then, so 
unexpected was it. The woman's voice changed sud- 
denly; her throat was torn with a wild and terrifying 
scream. Then came laughter. -A. wild cacaphony of 
sound like .that which sometimes echoed from the cells 
of the great, white building on the Hill. - 

Words began tumbling from her lips. Madly. Wilcfty. 
Gloatingly. As she told what she saw. Told it in its 
every revolting detail. Every intricate little movement^ 
and meaning. Words, thoughts, ideas of evil older than 
Earth itself poured from her. 

For stark seconds, Barton listened, horrified. It was 
incredible that the mind of a demure little woman like 
this should be host to such thoughts ; that from her lips 
could spill such a repugnant stream. The things she 
told were such that even Dr. Barton, experienced psy- 
chiatrist as he was, tasted the weak bile of disgust on 
his lips. " . • ' 

The creatures she envisioned in her dreaming were 
the embodiment of sheer horror ; her hateful words 
swept all the cleanliness and good from the thing called 
Man, .made him a stinking creature asquat in a mire of 
abomination! 

With a swift motion, Dr, Barton touched the ray 

* the 



switch, flicked it off. The humming ceased. The lighV 
ended its flickering. Dr. Barton called, “Mrs. Williams 
— waken ! I command you to wake !” 

The body on the cot stirred, opened its eyes. Mrs. 
Williams, meek, humble again, rose to a sitting posture. 

“Yes, doctor. What is it you want me to do?” 

“It is already done, Mrs. Williams.” Dr. Barton 
could scarcely realize that from this quiet creature's lips, 
a, moment r ago, had flooded words and thoughts un- 
speakable in their vileness. “Our experiment is fin- 
ished.” 

“And. did you ... I mean, is everything — ?” 

“You will be all right now,” promised Barton. “You 
will dream no more, I believe.” 

He did not tell her about the final stage of her dream- 
ing; It was enough that he had allayed her fears. He 
felt certain, did Dr. Barton, that there would be in the 
future no more prescient dreams — 

, Dr. Barton saw no more patients that afternoon. 
He found time for a round of golf before sundown ; after 
that he had dinner at the club and enjoyed, a movie in 
the evening. He went home and slept soundly. His 
mind was untroubled, for Dr. Barton was prey to no 
personal neuroses, phobias, or complexes. His code 
of living was simple. His philosophy of life admitted 
no hindering fear of an afterworld. And on such fear, 
he knew, was based all of mankind's mental ailments. 

The next morning he arrived at his office ready for a 
new day’s work. Miss Allen was already there. . She r 
had an open newspaper on the desk before her. She 
greeted him with excitement and horror. 

“ — a most dreadful thing last night, doctor !” she said. 
“I can hardly believe it.. You remember that little Mrs. 
Williams who came here yesterday afternoon?” 

“Yes, of course. Why?” 

“Oh, it's terrible ! Last night a fire broke out in Mrs. 
Rand's home, and : — ” 

" What !” Dr. Barton's face paled. “Let me see!” 
He clutched the newspaper,^ found the account. 

— firemen had. the conflagration under control and all mem- „ 
bers of the Rand family were rescued. The housekeeper, a 
Mrs. Williams, was the only victim. She was seen to climb 
from her bedroom window to the fire escape and make her 
way down to within a few steps of safety. 

Then, apparently overcome by the heat, she stopped and de- 
liberately" stepped back into the heart of the fire, into a din- 
ing-room window. Observers believe she must have died in- 
stantly— 

• • ' \ 

Died instantly ! That scream ! That sudden change 
in manner ! 

“What is it, Dr. Barton?” cried 'Miss Allen. “Oh, 
Dr. Barton, what is it?” 

But Dr. Barton, philosopher and scientist, did not , 
hear. He did not even know that his trembling handi 
had dropped the paper, that his eyes were .bleak and 
staring, uor that from his throat there bubbled such 
mad, inchoate laughter as often echoed from the ceJir of 
the big, white building on the Hill— 

END. 



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81 




® Tie utterly malign cM womara 'had defeated tier 
n® a final andl horrible way — but left her the 
possibility still of on© small shred of vengeance— 

Illustrated by Edd Cartier 



When the tray was laid out, Carola took it from 
Mrs. Higginson and went out into the hall. 

“Careful/’ Mrs. Higginson called after her, “The 
cream pitcher’s too full/’ 

It was. . Some had already spilled on the cloth, but 
Carola did not stop now to wipe it up. Breakfast was 
late enough, and Miss Amanda, lying upstairs, would 
be hungry. That was all there was left for her to be, 
Higginson had remarked more than once. 

Carola’s shadow moved carefully to heel all the way 
upstairs. It was a stockily built shadow, like Carola 
herself, but it lacked her full white throat and the warm 



brown hair that smoothed her head with the iridescence 
of water. Elbows out to accent the balance of the tray, 
girl and shadow climbed with a self-conscious delibera- 
tion. 

Just outside Miss Amanda’s door, Carola stopped 
and put down the tray. She was more nervous now, 
her hand uncertain about rearranging her apron, 
smoothing her hair, setting the cap farther back. It 
was her first day. Her first place, she reminded her- 
self with some severity. Taking a corner of the apron, 
she mopped at the spilt cream and set the pitcher over 
the spot it had left. Then, with the tray in one hand, 



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82 



UNKNOWN WORLDS 



she lifted her free hand to knock. But the voice, leap- 
ing as it did from the other side of the door, was too 
quick for her. 

'‘Come in ! I hear you out there !” 

Carola got the door open awkwardly and closed it 
after her. She crossed the room and set the tray down 
on the night table. Her smile felt stiff as she turned 
toward the old woman who lay-beneath -the spread of 
quilts. 

Miss Amanda. This was Miss Amanda. She was 
incredibly fat, this old woman, bloated. Higginson said 
she had not walked in forty-odd years. Her face had 
the bloodlessness of dough. It lay in bleached folds, as 
if there was no skull behind it, only pillows. Over her 
the bedclothes struggled into hills and gullies, and above 
this landscape she watched Carola with wicked, buried 
little eyes. ' 

''You must be the new girl,” she said. “What’s your 
name?” ... * 

“Carola, ma’am.” 

“Oh.” The little eyes' were not amused, but Miss 
Amanda’s 'mouth began to be. Out of the great, gross 
face a tiny smile came. “You’re very young, aren’t 
you?” "■ 

It was the look, the tone of voice, the whole stuffy 
bedroom which made Carola feel the question to be 
too personal, too prying. But that was silly. The old 
lady was only being kind. Carola fixed her eyes on a 
yellow patch intone of the quilts and answered, “Six- 
teen, ma’am.” 

Miss Amanda considered this in silence until the 
three china clocks stationed in the room gained a new 
resonance, and the yellow patch wavered before Carola’s 
eyes. If she had been able, she would have gone about 
putting the tray oh Miss Amanda’s knees, plumping up 
the pillows behindThe mountainous back. But that was 
the odd thing. Just now she could not think of the* 
tray and do something about it at the same time. Her 
hands felt as if they had gone to sleep, and jn spite of 
her brain’s dull warning, she found her eyes pulling 
away from the yellow patch, up over the hills and gul- 
lies, to stop at last on Miss Amanda’s face. 

Then the crystal void snapped without warning. 
Sound and object, leaped back into focus. 

There was the patch on the quilt again, and other 
patches like it. There' was Miss Amanda’s faintly smil- 
ing face. Carola felt at once confused and angry. She 
heard herself repeating the word “breakfast” over and 
over like an idiot. She pulled at her apron, the blood 
hot and thick in her throat. 

' “I’m sorry, ma’am,” she muttered. “I can’t think 
what came over me.” 

Miss Amanda closed her eyes and opened them 
again slowly. She did not appear to have heard Carola’s 
apology. 

“Yes, you’re young,” she murmured. “Not pretty, 
but youngs When I was your age I was a beauty. 
Black hair and a skin like flowers. I had . more jpro- 
posals than I could listen to.” She struck her great, 



unfeeling body. “Slim, I was. Not thick- waisted, like" 
you” Her smile seeped away into the flesh again. 
“But I was lying here, paralyzed, before I knew what 
it really meant to be young and lovely and strong.” 

Carola did not„know what to say. She could feel 
no real pity for the old woman. At the moment she 
only wanted to get out of^the room and back to Hig- 
ginson and the kitchen. A pain had "begun to throb 
in her head, pound at her ears.. But Miss Amanda 
did not dismiss her. 
x “Have you a young man, Carola?” 

.“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Put the tray here, Carola. That’s right. Now push 
up the pillows, will you? There, much better.” She 
sank back against the linen and patted the curve. of the 
sugar bowl languidly. “Two lumps.” 

Carola picked up the sugar tongs, and it was then 
that Miss Amanda caught her left arm, just above the 
wrist. The two women looked at each other for a long 
moment; Miss Amanda with a sly, reminiscent grin,. 
Carola bewildered and uneasy. With her little finger 
held fastidiously away from its fellows, the old woman’s 
right hand began to stroke Carola’s arm. Up and 
down, up and down. Once she pinched it gently, and 
the smile deepened. Then the slow, heavy caress was 
resumed. It had the insinuating, boneless pressure of 
a snake’s weight. 

“I’m not like most old women, Carola,” Miss 
Amanda murmured. “I’m not like you’d think. You 
can’t put me off with food. There are other things, 
and I haven’t forgotten those other things. You think 
because you’re young you can have them all to your- 
self, but you mustn’t be selfish.” 

Eagerness crystallized in the little eyes, lay' like a film 
over the wet, sly grin. 

“So you have a young man. What’s his name?” 

“Donald, ma’am.” 

“Donald, eh? Tell me about him./ Is he tall? 
Strong? Very strong? Tell me how strong he is, 
Carola. Tell me how he makes love to. you.” 

Carola forgot caution and jerked her arm away. She 
felt strangled. She felt she might be very sick unless 
she got away from the bed, the china clocks, the fastidi- 
ous lifted, little finger. 

Miss Amanda seemed to lose interest. Her face grew 
blank, the eyelids drooped. She began to dissect an 
egg carefully, her little finger still held aloof. 

“Get along, Carola, she said. “Come back in half 
an hour for the tray.” 

All the way down the stairs Carola fought back 
tears. Dirty-minded old beast ! She wanted to scream, 
to break the hanging lamp above the lower landing — 
anything to ease, the clotted tears behind her eyelids. 
Donald, Donald, Donald! She said the name over and 
over to herself, like a kind of hysterical apology. She 
told herself she didn’t care if the old woman sacked 
her that very day. Donald, Donald! 

She went into the kitchen, brushing past Higginson 
before the older woman should see her eyes. At the 



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FINGER! 

t — 1 — ■ a aas 1 - 1 a^Ecsssaa^^ggsassgssss; 1 — 

sink she turned on the tap and began to wash her 
hands and arms, running the water over them in a 
clear, swift stream. 

'‘Now what's eating you?" Higginson asked with 
mild interest. 

“Nothing," Carola muttered. 

“Have a set-to with the old lady?" said Higginson. 
“Well, she's not easy to work for. You've got to watch 
your step. Shels a queer one! The girls that's been 
*here and gone ! We was . without one for near six 
months until you come." She settled herself . into a 
chair and prepared to elaborate' “That's the truth. 
Some of 'em, the younger ones, took to behaving queer 
themselves after they was here awhile. They’d go 
around imitating Miss Amanda, the cheeky, bits ! 
Crooking out their little fingers like she does, sliding 
their eyes around — even talking like her sometimes. It 
was enough to give a body the creeps. There was one 
— girl about your age, I'd say. She was the worst of 
the lot when it came to imitating the old lady. Kept 
it up for about a month or so, and then the first thing 
we knew she'd gone and hung herself down there in 
the orchard. No reason anyone could find, either. 
Stood on a kitchen chair to reach the branch, she did. 
This very chair!" Higginson slapped the chair back 
triumphantly; “Couldn't nobody, not even the police, 
make anything out of it, and they was here long enough 
about it, tracking up the place!" 

Carola did not answer. She was crying quietly, but 
not for the girl^Higginson was talking about. 

“Well!" said Higginson. “Don't take on so. You 
can't be so queasy in this work. Old women will say 
their say, and it's your place to listen and keep still. 
And stop running that water! You've washed your 
hands so long that there's likely no hide left to them!" 

With the growth of the day, her headache grew 
steadily worse. It made her absent-minded and nerv- 
ous. She washed up the breakfast dishes, peeled vege- 
tables, scrubbed out the pantry. Noon came, and the 
luncheon tray was taken up and brought back down. 
Miss Amanda scarcely spoke to her. Carola watched 
the afternoon hours crawl through aching eyes. She 
broke a dish, she forgot what Higginson had told her 
about the stoVe flue. Her hands shook like rags in a 
wind whenever she tried to lift anything. Four o'clock. 
Five thirty. Six o'clock. At eight, Donald would be 
by with his wagon and team to take her home. Be- 
hind her forehead the pain was a hot, tight band. 

“You'd better mind what you're about, my girl," 
Higginson told her crossly. 

Carola set her teeth against the sick pounding of 
her skull and took the supper tray from Higginson. 
She would be careful. She wouldn't spill anything. 
But when she entered the bedroom, the dumb feeling 
of outrage swept over her again so that the tray shook 
in her hands. . For a moment she almost hoped the old 
woman would say something, would attempt to repeat 
her sly caress. Then, thought Carola, it would be 
time and cause for striking out — for hitting at that 



FINGER! 83 

useless body, clawing the evil, bloated face to strips. 
She put down the tray with a sense of shock. What 
had come, over her? She had never thought things 
like that in her life! And her head had never hurt so. 

But the meal went off without incident, and Carola 
was through with the dishes and waiting in the kitchen 
when Donald came. As she buttoned her coat, she 
could see his wagon through the window, see him sit- 
ting atop it, lazily flicking flies from the horses with 
his whip. She thought with satisfaction of his quick 
temper. He would probably burn this house down if 
she told him what the old lady had said to her. She 
put on her hat, and then Miss Amanda's bell jangled. 
Twice. 

“That's for you," Higginson said. “You'd better go 
up and see what she wants. Don't fidget. Your young 
man will wait. I'll tell him you've been held up." 

Carola looked at the woman desperately and went. 
She felt she could not bear the sight of Miss Amanda 
again that day. But there was the bedroom door. She 
opened it and went in. 

“Going, Carola?" asked Miss Amanda sweetly. “But 
of course! How stupid I'm getting. There’s someone 
waiting for you, isn't there? I can see him through 
the window here if I pull myself up a little. There! 
Is that your Donald?" 

“Yes, ma’am," Carola answered quickly. “Did you 
want something, ma'am?" She thought, “If you say 
anything more, I'll walk out. I'll tell Donald. I'll 
never come back." 

But all Miss Amanda said was: “Very well. But 
before you go, I wish you'd take away one of these 
pillows. I can't sleep with all of them." 

Carola might have been more wary. She might have 
run then, out of the room, away from the chiming of 
the china clocks and the twisting of the old, unquiet 
hands. But Miss Amanda's voice was fretful and com- 
plaining, the way an old woman’s has a right to be. 
And Carola went up to the bed to do as she was told. 

“That's better," said Miss Amanda. “Much better." 

Suddenly her hands clamped over Carola’s shoulders, 
forcing her down on the bed, holding her so that the 
girl's frightened face was only an inch from her own. 
Those hands were very strong. One of them alone was 
quite capable of keeping Carola where she was. 

“Let me go !" Carola gasped. She could hardly force 
her voice out of her dry, throbbing throat. The head- 
ache cut into her brain. It caught fire with what Miss 
Amanda was saying. 

“Not just now, Carola. You see, you’re not going 
to meet your lover, Carola. Never again. But he won’t 
be disappointed. He won’t ever know. How should 
he, when you aren’t even Carola any more — Carola- 
carolacarola — " 

The voice seemed to come now from the old eyes. 
It gathered about Carola and held her. It became part 
of the roaring pain within her, part of the silly china 
clocks scratching away at time. She heard the wind 



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UNKNOWN WORLDS 



and the darkness, and then the old face vanished, leav- 
ing only the pits of eyes. Only two pits which became 
one, a pulling well of night which she 'plunged down, 
down. 

And then the room was quiet. The aching left her 
skull, became a weakness so intense that it was like 
fire. It ’Spread down through her thighs, her ankles, 
her feet. They stretched out before her, massive, cov- 
ered with quilts. Quilts that seemed to have no weight. 

With a speechless fascination she watched herself, 
in a brown, high-buttoned coat, get up from the bed, 
cross the room, open the door and go out. The foot- 
steps went swiftly down the stairs, but she could not 
followThem. She could not even get to the mirror to find 
out why the little finger of her right hand should be t 
crooked out like that. She could not do any. of these 
things because, as she realized with a slow horror, she 
had not walked in more than forty years, and would 
never walk again ! 

The room spun, then settled. She realized almost 
immediately that although she was imprisoned, she was 
not helpless. The bell rope hung from the head of her 
bed, just to the left. The alien, bloated arm moved 
to her will, sent peal after peal to halt the retreating 
leet' on the stairs. 

She remembered words the old, wet mouth had said: 
“There’s someone waiting for you, isn’t there? I can 
see him through the window. if I pull myself up g little.” 

And Carola, at the thought of DonakLand the Thing 
which wore her body, dragged the leaden ^weight up on 
the pillows, clung to the bedposts,. and saw him also., 
Down there in the yard, slouched on the wagon seat, 
handsome, careless. His face turned to the light which 
.streaked through the open kitchen door. . He smiled 
at the girl who came through that door to the wagon. 

“Well, Carola,” he called to that girl, “you’ve kept 
me a time, you have.” His voice stabbed clearly through 
the bedroom window and . through Carola. / 

She saw the. face which had been hers laughing up 
at Donald. She saw him put out his arms to lift the 
girl up beside him. But he never did, for with one 
heavy hand, Carola flung open the bedroom window 
and screamed at . them in’ a voice she had never spoken 
with before. 

. “Stop, thief! Thief!” 

She pulled herself around so that she hung over the 
window sill. Below, Higginson came running from 
the kitchen door to stare upward. Donald and the 
girl stared up at her also, their faces frozen “with sur-. 
prise. Words formed cool and whole in her brain. 
She knew exactly what to do. 

“My rings!” she screamed to Higginson. “That 
girl’s got my rings!” 

The face below which had been hers, arched its white 
neck in protest. Whatever. the strength of Miss Aman- 
da’s will, the body it ruled now was no match for Hig- 
ginson’s strength.' Outraged, the cook caught the girl’s 
arm, jerked iher out of Donald’s reach and into the 
house. For a moment Donald sat stunned. Then he 

.. THE 



jumped to the ground. He looked more bewildered 
than angry. 

“I don’t know what ’ this . is all about,” he shouted 
after Higginson, “but' you’re not taking her in there 
alone. I’m coming, too!’’ '• 

He spoke prematurely. Higginson, having reached 
the house, shoved her prisoner inside. Then she waited 
in the doorway just long enough to give Donald a push 
which threw him off balance. The door slammed in 
his face, and did not open again in response to his 
furious knocking. 

Carola closed the window, so that the knocking 
dulled and was no louder than her heart. She sank 
back against the pillows to wait. Higginson evidently 
had the girl in hand. She was attempting to force her 
up the stairs to the bedroom, and their footsteps came 
shuffled and uneven to Car ola> broken once by scuf- 
fling. Then the door opened and Higginson pushed the 
girl inside. 

“You can go, Higginson,” said Carola. “I’ll attend 
to .this alone.” . . I 

. “Yes, ma’am. ‘ I’ll send for the police if you say so, 
but she ought to be made to give up your rings first. 

I thought I could — ” . 

“The police,” Carola murmured. “Yes, the police. 
Call them and then come back.” • 

“You can’t keep me here forever, you know,” she 
heard Amanda say in the warm, young voice. “When 
the police come, they’ll find all the rings locked in that 
box on the bureau. They’ll put you~down for a trou- 
ble-making old woman and maybe leave it at that. But 
they’ll let me go — and I’ll take Donald with me ! Your 
precious Donald!” • - ! 

She said this over twice again, coming closer to the 
bed as she spoke. When she was near enough she 
leaned over and almost spat out the last words at the 
old, watchful face. . 

As if the scene had happened a hundred times before, 'y 
Carola knew what she must do. Beneath the young 
f^ce was a young, white neck. Carola had not known 
that the old hands could move so quickly, that the girl’s 
throat would fit them so well. The strength of the fin- 
gers filled her with an almost unbearable pleasure. 

Feet were coming up the stairs outside before Carola 
released the dead throat. A policeman’s tread, heavy 
and impersonal. For a moment she only listened and ; 
waited, then her brain roused with alarm. Not only 
the old legs were paralyzed now. She could not take 
her eyes from the terrible strength of those fingers, 
hooked to fit a girl’s neck. Nine hooked fingers. :The 
tenth had thrust : itself, out fastidiously. 

Higginson’s voice preceded the policeman in the hall. 

It came clearly through the bedroom door. 

“In here,” she was saying, “and time you showed up.- 
It’s a pity honest folk have to go looking for you when 
there's trouble! The old lady’s bedridden, too, and 
what’s the. law for if it’s not to protect the likes of her, 

I want to know?” 
end. * 



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Illustrated by Orban 



“Human beings,” said Tuffaron, familiarly known as 
the Mad Genii, “are stupid and willful. They derive 
intense enjoyment from suffering or else they would not 
bend all their efforts toward suffering.” 

He sat back upon the hot rock this hotter day and 
gazed off into the dun wilderness, stroking high fang to 
give himself an air of contemplation and wisdom. 

Georgie bustled her wings with resentment. Her 
lower lip protruded and her usually angelic countenance 
darkened. “Know-it-all !” she taunted. “Conceited 
know-it-all !” 



“That is no way for an angel to talk, Georgie,” said 
Tuffaron. . 

“Conceited, bloated, know-it-all !■” she cried and then 
and there felt a growing desire to kick his huge column 
of a leg. Of course she wouldn’t for that, would not be 
exactly an expression of love for everything. “Prove 
it!” she demanded. 

“Why,” said Tuffaron the Mad Genii in his most 
lofty tone, “human beings prove it themselves.” 

“You evade me. You are the stupid one!” said 
I dare you to put that matter to test. Hu- 



Georgie. 

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- UNKNOWN WORLDS * 



man beings are very nice, very, very nice and I love 
them. So there !” 

i 

“You are under orders to love everything, even hu- 
man beings,” said TufFaron. “And why should I exert 
myself to labor a point already too beautifully estab- 
lished ?” ' 

“Coward!" said Georgie. 

TufFaron looked down at her and thoughtfully con- 
sidered her virginal whiteness, the graceful slope of her 
wings, the pink of her tiny toes showing from beneath 
her radiant gown. “Georgie, I would not try to trifle 
with such proof if I were you. Besides, you have noth- 
ing to wager.” 

“I am not allowed to wager.” 

“See?” said TufFaron. “You are afraid to prove 
your own point for you kiigw quite well you cannot.” 

“HI wager my magic ring against your magic snuff- 
box that I can prove you wrong,” said Georgie. 

“Ah,” said TufFaron. “But how do you propose to . 
prove this?” - 

“The outer limit of my power is to grant anything for 
forty-eight hours.” 

“Certainly, but according to the law, if you grant 
anything for forfy-eight hours you have to have it back 
in forty-eight hours.” 

“Just so. A human being,” declared Georgie, “is so 
starved for comfort and happiness' that if he is granted 
all for just a short time he will be content.” 

“My dear, you 'do not know humans.”- " 

“Is it a wager ?” 

“A sure thing is never a wager,” said TufFaron, “but 
I will place my magic snuffbox against your magic ring 
that if you give all for forty-eight hours you will only 
succeed in creating misery. My l precept is well known.” 

“The wager is stated. I shall grant all for forty-eight 
hours and even though I must take it back at the end of 
the time I shall succeed in leaving happiness.” 

* Solemnly he wrapped his huge black hand about her 
dainty little white one. She eyed him defiantly as they 
. sealed the bargain. And then she leaped up and flew 
swiftly away. 

TufFaron barked a guffaw. “I have always wanted 
an angel ring,” he told the hot day. 

It was not warm in the room and one might have 
kept butter on the ancient radiator. A trickle of bitter 
wind came in under the door, gulped what warmth 
there was to be found in the place and then with a k tri- 
umphant swoop went soaring up and out through the 
cracked pane at the window’s top. 4 

It was not warm but it‘ was clean, this room. Patient 
hands had^polished the floor with much scrubbing,' the 
walls of the room bore ^erasure marks but no spots of 
. smudge. The tiny kitchenette might not have a quarter 
in its gas meter but it had bright red paper edging its 
shelves and the scanty utensils were burnished into 
mirrors; the tea towels, though ragged, were newly 



washed and'even the dish cloth was white— but this last 
was more because there had been nothing with which 
to soil dishes for many days. A half loaf of bread and 
a chunk of very cheap cheese stood in solitary bravery 
upon the cupboard shelf. 

The little, worn lady who napped upon the bed, was 
not unlike the shawl which covered her — a lovely weave 
but tattered edges and thin warp and a bleach which 
comes with time. ~ - 

Meredith Smith’s little hand, outflung against the 
pillow, matched tlie whiteness of the case save where 
the veins showed blue. It was a hand which reminded 
one of. a doll’s. 

She slept. To her, as years went on, sleep was more 
and more the only thing left for her to do. It was as 
though an exhausting life had robbed her of rest so that 
now when she no longer had work to do she could at ‘ 
least make up lost sleep. 

From the age of eighteen to the age of sixty she had 
been a stenographer in the Hayward Life Co. . She had 
written billions of words in letters, for them. She had 
kept the files of her department in neat and exact order. 
She would have had a pension now but Hayward Life 
. was a defunct organization and had been so for the past 
six years. 

Relief brought Meredith Smith enough for her rent 
and a small allowance of food but she was not officious 
and demanding enough to extract from the authorities a 

* sufficiency. 

But she did not mind, poverty. She did not mind 
cold. There was only one sharp pain with her now and 
one which she felt was a pain which should be accepted, 
endured. It had come about three years ago when she 
had chanced to read a poem in which old age was paid . 
by its memory of love and it had swept over her like a 
blinding flood tha£ she, Meredith Smith, had no pay- 
ment for that age. The only thing she had saved was 
a decent burial, two hundred and twenty dollars beneath 
the rug. ; 

She had worked. There had been many women who 
had married out of work. But she had worked. She 
had been neither - beautiful nor ugly. She' had merely 
been efficient. At times -she had thought to herself that 
on some future day she must find, at last, that thing 
for which her heart was starved. But it had always 
been a future day and now, 'at sixty-six, there would 
never be one. 7 

She had never loved a man. She had .never been 

• loved by a child. She had had a long succession of effi- 
cient days where her typewriter had clattered busily and 
loudly as though to muffle her lack. 

She had never had anyone. She had been a small 
soul in a great city, scarcely knowing who worked at the 
next desk. And so it had been from eighteen to sixty. 
And now — . 

It was easier now to sleep and try not to think of it. 
For she would die without having once known affection, 
jealousy, ecstacy or true pain. 



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BORROWED GLORY 



She had- been useless. She had run a typewriter. 
She had been nothing to life. She had never known 
beauty; she had never known laughter; she had never 
known pain; and she would die without ever having 
lived, she would die without a single tear to fall upon 
her going. She had never been known, to be forgotten. 
Yesterdays reached back in a long gray chain like pages 
written with a single word and without punctuation. 
Tomorrow stretched out gray; gray arid then black. A 
long, long time black. And she was forgotten before 
she was gone and she had nothing to forget except 
emptiness. 

But the hand which touched her hand so warmly did 
not startle her arid it did not seem strange for her faded 
blue eyes to open upon a lovely girl. The door had been 
locked but Meredith Smith did not think of that for this 
visitor was sitting upon the edge of the bed and smiling 
at her so calmly and pleasantly that one could never 
think of her as an intruder. 

“You are Meredith Smith ?” said the visitor. 

The old lady smiled. “What is your name? ,, 

“I am called Georgette, Meredith. Do not be afraid.” 

“I am glad you came.” 

“Thank you. You see very few people, I think.” 

“No one/' said Meredith, “except the relief agent 
each week.” 

“Meredith Smith, would you like to see people?” 

“I don’t understand you.” 

“Meredith Smith, would you like to see people and be 
young again and dance and laugh and be in love?” 

The old lady’s eyes became moist. She smiled, afraid 
to be eager. 

“Would you like to do these things, Meredith Smith, 
if only for forty-eight hours, knowing that you would 
again come here and be old?” 

“For forty-eight hours — to be young, to dance, to 
laugh, to be in love — even if only for forty-eight hours.” 
She was still afraid and spoke very quietly. 

“Then,” said Georgie, “I tell you now,” and she had 
a .small stick with a glowing thing upon its end, “that 
for forty-eight hours, beginning this minute, you can 
have everything for which you ask and everything done 
which you want done. But you must know that at the 
end of the forty-eight hours, everything for which you 
ask will be taken back.” 

“Yes,” said Meredith in a w T hisper. “Oh, yes!” 

“It is now eight o’clock in the morning,” said Georgie. 
“At eight a. in. day after tomorrow, all things I gave 
you will have to be returned, save only memory. But 
until then, Meredith Smith, all things you want are 
yours.” 

It did not particularly surprise Meredith that her 
visitor did not go away as a normal person should but 
dissolved, glowed and vanished. Meredith sat looking 
at the imprint on the bed where Georgette had been 
seated. And then Meredith rose. 

YOUTH! BEAUTY! 



87 

In her mirror she watched and her fluttering heart 
began to grow stronger and stronger. Her hair turned 
from gray to soft, burnished chestnut. Her eyes grew 
larger and longer and brightened into a blue which was 
deep and lovely and warm. Her skin became fresh and 
pink and radiant. She smiled at herself and her beauti- 
ful moutl/ bowed open to reveal sparkling, even teeth. 
There came a taut, breath -catching curve in her throat 
and the unseen hand which molded her flowed over her 
form, rounding it, giving it grace, giving it allure and 
poise — . 

YOUTH! 

A gay darling of eighteen stared with lip-parted won- 
der at herself. 

BEAUTY! 

Ah, beaifty ! 

She was not able to longer retain the somber rags of 
her clothes and with a prodigal hand ripped them away 
and, naked, held out her arms and waltzed airily about 
the room, thrilled to the edge of tears but laughing in- 
stead. 

“Meredith, Meredith,” she said to the mirror, posed 
as she halted. “Meredith, Meredith,” she said again, 
intrigued by the warm charm of the new voice which 
came softly and throbbingly out of herself. 

Ah, yes, a young beauty. A proud young beauty who 
could yet be tender and yielding, whose laughter was 
gay and told of passion and love — 

“Meredith, Meredith,” she whispered and kissed her- 
self in the mirror. 

Where were those dead years? Gone and done. 
Where were those lightless days ? Cut through now by 
the brilliance of this vision she beheld. Where was the 
heartache of never having belonged or suffered ? Gone, 
gone. All gone now. For everything might be taken 
back but this memory and the memory, that would be 
enough ! : Forty-eight hours. And already those hours 
were speeding. 

What to wear? She did not even know enough of 
current styles to ask properly. And then she solved it 
with a giggle at her own brightness. 

“I wish for a morning outfit of the most enhancing 
and modern style possible.” 

CLOTHES ! 

They rustled upon the furniture and lay still, new in 
expensive boxes. A saucy little hat. .. Sheer stockings 
so thrilling to the touch. A white linen dress with a 
piquant collar and a small bolero to match. Long white 
gloves smooth to the cheek. And underthings. And 
graceful shoes. 

She dressed, lingering ecstatically over the process, 
enjoying the touch of the fabrics, reveling in the new 
clean smell of silk and leather. 

She enjoyed herself in the glass, turning and turning 
back, posing and turning again. And then she drew on 
the gloves, picked up the purse and stepped out of her 
room. 

She was not seen in the hall or on the stairs. She 
wrinkled a pert little nose at the sordid street. 



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UNKNOWN WORLDS „ 



<f A car/' she said. “A wonderful car, very long and 
smooth to ride in, and a haughty chauffeur and footman 
to drive it.” , • 

v - “Your car,' mademoiselle,” said the stiffly standing 
footman, six feet tall and his chin resting on a cloud. 

For a moment she was awed by his austerity and she 
nearly drew back as though he could look through her 
and know that it was a masquerade. But she did not 
want * him to see* how daunted she was and so she 
stepped into the limousine. Still frightened she settled 
back upon the white leather upholstery. 

“The . . . ah, the park— James.” 

“Very good, mademoiselle.” And the footman stepped 
into the front seat and said- to the chauffeur, “Made- 
moiselle requires to ride in the park.” 

They hummed away and up the street and through 
the town and soon they were spinning between the green 
acres of Central Park, one of a flowing line of traffic. 
She was aware of people who stopped and glanced to- 
ward her for it was a lovely car_and in it she knew they 
saw a lovely girl. She felt suddenly unhappy and con- 
spicuous. And it worried her that the chauffeur and 
footman knew that this was a masquerade. 

“Stop,” she said into the phone. 

The car drew up beside a curbed walk and she got out.* 

“I shall not need you again,” she said. 

“Very good, mademoiselle,” said the footman with a 
stiff bow, and thexar went away. 

She was relieved' about it for not once in it had she 
felt comfortable. And standing here she, did not feel 
conspicuous at all for people passed her by, now that the 
car was gone, with only that sidelong glance which is 
awarded every heart-stirring girl by the passer-by. 

Warm again arid happy, she stepped off the walk and 
risked staining her tiny shoes in the grass. She felt she 
must walk in soft earth beneath a clear sky and feel 
clean wind, and so> for nearly an hour, she enjoyed her- 
self. 

Then she began to be aware of time slipping away 
from her. She knew she must compose herself, bring 
order, to her activities, plan out each hour which re- 
mained to her, For only in that way could she stock a 
store of memories from which she could draw upon in 
the- years which would remain to her. 

Across the drive was a bench beside the lake and she 
knew that it would be a nice place to think and so she 
waited for the flow of traffic' to abate so that she could 
cross to it. 

She thought the way clear and stepped upon the 
street. There was a sudden scream of brakes and a 
thudding bump as wheels were stabbed into the gutter. 
She stood paralyzed with terror to see that a large car 
had narrowly missed her and that only by expert driv- 
ing on the part of its chauffeur. 

A young man was out of the back and had her hand, 
dragging her from the street and into the car with him. 
She sat still, pale and weak, lips parted. But it was 
not from fright but from wonder. She had not wished 



for this and yet it could not have been better had she 
wished for it. 

“You are not hurt?” he said. He was shy and nerv- 
ous and when he saw that he still held her hand he 
quickly dropped it and' moistened his lips. 

She looked long at him. He was a young man, prob- 
ably not more than twenty-five, for his skin was fresh 
and his eyes.were clear. He radiated strength and this 
shyness of his was only born from fright at the near 
accident, fright for her and awe for her beauty as well. 
He was six feet tall and his eyes were black as his hair. 
His voice was low and showed breeding. 

“Is there . . . there any place we can take you?” 

“I . . . wasn’t going anywhere in particular,” she said. 
“You are very good. I . \ . I am sorry I frightened 
you so. I wasn’t watching — ” * . 

“It is all our fault,” said the young man. “Please, 
may I introduce myself? -I am Thomas Crandall.” 

“I am Meredith Smith.” 

“It ... it isn’t quite proper — to be introduced this 
way,” he faltered. And then he smiled good-humoredly 
at her and they both began to laugh. 

The laughter put . them at ease and took away the 
memory of the near fatality. 

They drove for a little while, more and more in tune 
.with each other and then he turned to her and asked, 
“Would I seem terribly bold if I asked you to have 
lunch with me? I at least owe you that.” 

“I would be very disappointed if you did not,” she 
answered. “That . , . that isn’t a very ladylike speech I 
know but . . . but I would like to have lunch with you.” 
He was flattered and enthralled and smiled, it upon 
her. Most of his lingering shyness departed and he 
leaned toward the glass to tell his chauffeur, “The 
Montmaron, please.” 

“You know,” he said a little while later as they sat in 
the roof garden at a small table, “I was hoping that 
something like this might happen. Last night, I was 
hoping. Do you believe in wishes? I think wishes 
come true sometimes; don’t they?” 

She was startled that he might have read her secret 
but she smiled at him and realized it wasn’t so. The ' 
softness of the string music failed, after that, to wholly 
dispel a fear which had been implanted in her heart. 

What would he think when he discovered — No, she .. 
mustn’t dwell upon that. She would not dwell on the 
end, * " 

He was so nice when he laughed. He was so nice. 
And yet the knife of fear still probed her heart. He 
. must not know. They would live up to the moment and 
then — then she — . . 

“It’s wine with bubbles in it,” he was saying. “Wine 
with giggles in it. Drink a little but not too much,” 

She drank. She felt better. She almost forgot— 
They went to a matinee but she had so little attention 
for the stage that the* play, afterward, seemed quite in- 
coherent to her. Somehow Thomas Crandall was the 



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BORROWED GLORY 



89 



leading man and Thomas Crandall occasionally smiled 
sideways at her. When it ended he was holding her 
hand. He seemed very doubtful of his small advances 
and she had the feeling that he was afraid he might 
touch her and break her. 

“What will your family think ?" he said when they 
were outside. “You've been gone all afternoon and 
someone must have expected you somewhere. Surely 
anyone as beautiful as you must be missed." 

She felt nervous and guilty. “Oh ... oh I ... I am 
not from New York. I am from Boston. That's it. 
From Boston. And — my father and mother are both 
dead. I came down to see a show." 

“Ah, so I’ve helped you attend to business." He 
grinned. “Then I am very much in luck. Then you 
can dine with me. And there are clubs and dancing and 
there will be a moon tonight — " Instantly he blushed. 
And she laughed at him. 

“I am fond of the moon," she said, close against his 
arm. “Oh, but I must . . . must go to my hotel for a 
little while and dress." 

“Tell Charles which one. No, tell me and I'll tell 
him. I should dress also." 

“The ... the Astor." 

“Fll be back in an hour," he called to her from the 
curb. And the big car drew away. 

She was filled with uneasiness to be standing there 
alone. She knew very little about such things and was 
certain* she would make some mistake. But she reck- 
oned without her beauty and the gallantry of man. 

“I wish," she whispered to herself as she signed the 
register, “that I had a hundred dollars in my purse." 
And to the smiling clerk, “A suite, please. A large 
suite. My . . ,*my baggage will be brought in." 

And the porter came through the door carrying new 
luggage with her name upon it. 

When Thomas Crandall came back an hour later he 
stopped in wide-eyed reverence for the girl who came 
from the elevator. Her glowing chestnut hair swept 
down to naked shoulders and her gown, a graceful 
miracle in green, flowed closely to her to sweep out and 
to the floor. Finding it difficult to speak — for there 
seemed to be something in his throat — he helped her 
into the ermine wrap and led her through the lobby 
and down the steps as though he was escorting the sun 
itself. 

“You . . . you are beautiful," he said. “No, that's 
not adequate. You are — Oh," he gave it up, “where 
'would you like to dine?" 

“Where you are going," she said. 

He laughed. They both laughed. And they went 
away to dine. 

The world became a fantasy of bright glasses and 
swirling color and music, a delicate sensory world and 
people laughed together and waiters were quick and 
kind. 

“Not too much/' he admonished her. “It’s not the 



wine. It's the bubbles. They have fantasies in them. 
Each one contains a giggle or a castle or the moon," 

They danced. And the bubbles won. 

Somewhat astonished she looked about her to find the 
last place nearly empty. A scrubwoman was already 
at work upon the floor and a man was piling tables and 
chairs. And the orchestra, when Tommy offered more 
largess, was too sleepy to play. There was no more 
champagne. There was no more music. And the edge 
of the roof garden was already gray and the moon had 
gone. 

She yawned as he took her arm. She nearly fell 
asleep as they got into his car. She snuggled down 
against him and looked up at him. 

He laughed "at her and then grew serious. “If I 
thought . . . if . . . well ... I wish I could marry you." 

“Why can't you?" she said. 

“Why can’t — Do you mean it? But, no. You’ve 
known me a very short time. You — " 

“I have known you forever. We are to be married !" 

“But what if ... if I turn out to be a drunkard ?" 

“Then I will also be a drunkard." 

He looked at her for a moment. “You do love me, 
don't you, as I love you?" 

She pulled his head down and kissed him. 

Somewhat dazedly afterward he said to his chauffeur ; 
“There must be a place where people can get married 
quickly." 

“Quickly," she murmured. 

“Yes, sir," said the chauffeur. 

“Take us there," said Tommy. 

Suddenly she was terrified. She did not dare permit 
him to do this. For in — in twenty-six hours she would 
be — But she was more afraid that he would not. 

She snuggled against him once more and sighed. 
Twenty-six hours left. Only twenty-six hours left but 
they could be full and she could be happy. And some- 
how, she would have to have the courage to face what 
came after. To face the loss of him — She drowsed. 

With sixteen hours left to her she lay upon the great 
bed in the airy room and looked at the ceiling beams 
where the afternoon sunlight sent reflections dancing. 
He had said that he had a few phone calls to make and 
that there would be a party beginning at six and that 
the whole city — or whoever was important in the city — 
would be there. And she had understood suddenly that 
she knew about Thomas Crandall or had heard of him 
as a playwright, fabulously successful. 

This, his home, was a palace of wonder to her, all 
marble and teak and ivory, filled with servants who were 
soft-footed and efficient — servants of whom she was 
secretly in awe. 

She had not wished this and yet it had happened. It 
had been all Tommy's idea to marry her, to bring her 
here, -to give a great party — 

She did not have the courage it would take to run 
away now, before everyone came. For these hours were 
so precious that she hated to waste minutes in thinking 
so darkly on things. But think now she must. In six- 



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UNKNOWN 'WORLDS 



teen hours she would be sixty-six years old, faded, deli- 
cate, starved— And Thomas Crandall — 

She began to weep and, in a little while, realized that 
there was no solution. For what could she.ask which 
she could retain? She could not plead that his love 
would not change. She knew that when he knew, he 
would be revolted both by her withered self and by the 
witchcraft which he would perceive. She could never 
stand to see him look at her as he^ would. And she 
could never bear to so cruelly abuse his love. For His 
love was not part of the wishes. If only it had been! 
Then he would forget — 

And another knife of thought cut into her. Could she 
go back now, Mrs. Thomas Crandall, to a hovel on a 
sordid street and be happy with memory? She began 
to know that that could never .be. 

‘ But his footstep was in the hall and he burst in fol- 
lowed by a train of servants who bore great boxes of 
clothes and flowers and little boxes full of things much 
more precious. 

She was lost in the rapture .of it. And then when she 
kissed him she forgot even the little boxes of velvet. 

“Tommy, if this could last forever and. ever — ” 

“It' will last. Forever and ever/' But he. seemed to 
sense something strange in her and the dark eyes were 
thoughtful for just the space of a heartbeat. And her 
heart was racing. 

“Tommy — don’t leave me. Ever!” 

* “Never. In a little while the mayor and I don’t know 
who all will be here for the wedding dinner.. After your 
very slight wedding breakfast, I should think you would 
want something to eat. We’ll have pheasants and . . . 
and humming bird tongues — ” 

He scooped her up and carried her around the room 
and pretended to throw her out of the window. 

And so the hours fled, as vanishes a song. 

And it was four o’clock in the morning with the sum- 
mer. day heralded by a false dawn. Beside her Tommy 
slept quietly, hair tousled, one arm flung across her. A 
bird began to chirp himself into groggy wakefulness and 
somewhere in the direction of the river a boat whistled 
throatily. A clock was running in the room. Running 
loudly. She could just see its glowing face and knew 
that it was four. She had just four hours left. Four 
hours. 

And she could not trust herself. She had to run away. 
But she could not trust herself not to afterward come 
back. And everything she had, been given would be 
taken away except the memory. 

The memory ! * 

She knew now that a memory was not enough. A 
memory would be pain she could~not bear. She would 
read .of. his plays. And hear of his continued fame. 
And she — she would not be able to come near him — and 
she would not be able .to stay away. She wpuld come 
back and he would not believe her. He would turn her 
forth and she would see a look upon his face — 

She shivered. 



. She knew suddenly what she had to do and so she 
shivered. 

With gentle slowness, she removed his arm and crept 
from' the bed. He stirred and seemed about to wake 
and then -quieted. She bent and kissed his cheek and 
a small bright tear glowed there in the cold false dawn. 
He stirred again and muttered her name in his sleep. A 
frown passed over his brow and then again he was still. 

She drew her robe about her and tiptoed out into the 
anteroom where she quickly dressed. She commanded 
pen and ink : 

My Darling: 

This has all been a dream and I am grateful. You must not 
"think of me again for I am not worth the thought. I knew I 
could not be with you past this dawn and yet I allowed your 
love for me to grow. Darling, try to forgive me. I go into 
nothingness. Do not think^of me as unfaithful for I shall be 
faithful. But I was given forty-eight hours of freedom and 
now — By the time you . read this I shall be dead. Do not 
search for me. It cannot be otherwise. I am grateful to you. 
I love you. Meredith. 

At six, Tommy Crandall woke with a terrified start. 
He did not know what had happened but he seemed to 
hear a far-off voice cry -to- him. Meredith was gone. 
He flung back the covers and leaped up to search madly 
for her. A valet looked strangely at him. ” ' * 

“Mrs, Crandall left here two hours ago, sir. She 
went in a taxi. " She said she had left you a note — Here 
it is, sir.” 

Tommy read the note and then, trembling, read it 
through again. He walked in a small circle in the mid- 
dle of the room and then suddenly understood. Wildly 
he snatched at his clothes and got them on. 

“Get the car!” he roared at the valets “Oh, my 
God, get the car ! I’ll find her. I have to find her !” 

He did not bother to go to the Astor for there was an 
urgency in the note which directed his steps immediately 
to the police. \ 

And he found a sleepy sergeant at the morgue who 
yawned as he said, “You can look but we ain’t got noth- 
ing like that in here. Two firemen that burned up on a 
ship and a couple of accident cases come in about dawn. 
But we ain’t got no beautiful woman. No, sir, it ain’t 
very often you see a beautiful woman down here. When 
they’re beautiful they don’t let themseives — ” 

Tommy flung. away and then turned. “How do I find 
a medical examiner ?” 

“ThatVa thought,” yawned the sergeant. “Call head- 
quarters and they’ll give you the duty desk,” 

It was. eight o’clock before Tommy found the medi- 
cal examiner who' knew. The man was "still perturbed 
and perplexed for he was not at ease about things. He 
was a small, nervous politician’s heel dog. 

- He ran a finger under his collar as he gazed at the 
overwrought young, man who stood in the doorway. 

_ “Well, I thought it was irregular. But it was my duty 
and* there was no sign of foul play. And so I took the. 
death certificate and signed it — ” ' 



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Tommy turned pale. “Then . . . then she is dead.” 

“Why, yes. A funny thing,” said the coroner un- 
comfortably, “But she came and got me and said to 
come along and, of course, a beautiful woman that way 
and looking rich, I went along. And we came to this 
undertaking parlor and went in and she said she had 
two hundred and twenty dollars of her own money. 
She was very particular about its being her own money 
and she — ” 

“Are you sure she is dead?” 

“Why, yes, I say, she made the arrangements on the 
condition that she would be buried right away without 
a notice sent out or anything and paid spot cash and 
then — well, she dropped dead.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Brother, when they’re dead, they’re dead. My 
stethoscope doesn’t lie. And no sign of foul play or 
poison whatever. And, well, I took my pen in hand 
and signed. She didn’t want an autopsy because she 
said she couldn’t stand being cut up, and she didn’t 
want to be embalmed. ’So they just took her and 
buried—” 

“What funeral parlor?” demanded Tommy savagely. 

“I’ll give you the address,” said the examiner. And 
he did. 

The professional manner of the undertaker Tommy 
dashed aside. “A lady by the name of Meredith Smith 
Crandall was here this morning.” 

“Why, yes,” said the sad gentleman. “Yes, that is 
true.”^ He looked upset. “Is there anything wrong?” 

“No. Nothing wrong — no trouble for you, I mean. 
What happened ?” 

“Why she came in and paid for a funeral on the con- 
dition that she would be buried right away and so we 
buried her, of course. She paid cash, double price on 
our cheapest funeral. She insisted it was her own 



money. I don’t know why. The thing is very regular. 
We have a certificate — ” 

“Take me to the cemetery!” cried Tommy in anguish. 

“Certainly,” said the undertaker respectfully. “But 
she has been legally buried and an exhumation order — ” 

“Take me there !” 

They drove between the gateposts of Woodpine and it 
was twenty minutes of ten. The undertaker pointed to 
the grave where the turf was still raw, A workman was 
starting to clear away to place sod on the place and an- 
other was hauling away spare dirt. 

The undertaker looked at Tommy with amazement. 
The workmen stared. Tommy immediately seized * a 
spade and began to throw back the earth. When they 
attempted to stop him he struck at them with the im- 
plement and kept on digging. And then, because his 
very savageness had cowed them, they helped him lift 
the cheap, sealed coffin from the. earth. Tommy knocked 
off the lid with the spade. 

A little old lady lay there, clad in decent if ragged 
garments, her fine gray hair a halo above the delicate 
oval of her face. But she was not lying with crossed 
arms. And she had not died with a smile. She had 
been so tiny that she had been able to turn over in her 
coffin and now she lay, with a bruised and bloodied face 
and torn hands, huddled on her side and her expression 
did not indicate that she had died in peace. 

It was ten o’clock. 

The workmen suddenly drew away from Tommy. 
The undertaker gasped and involuntarily crossed him- 
self. For the man who clutched the body to him and 
wept was no longer young. He was an old man of more 
than sixty now where he had been young before and 
the good garments he had worn had become carefully 
kept but threadbare tweed. What hair he had now was 
gray. And the tears which coursed down his cheeks 
made their way through furrows put there by loneliness 
and privation. 

You see, Georgie had made two calls the day before. 



THE END. 






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92 




'By Anthoey Bouctier , 

# A well-known detective story author searches the famous quatrains 

of Nostradamus, the prophet, for clues to the future — and goes out 

"on a limb" with specific guesses asT to what Nostradamus meant 
* . 
in his prophecies of our immediate future, and s this war. 

Illustrated by Kramer * 



The war will continue relentlessly. ' Attempts at a negotiated 
.peace will be' frustrated by -Hitler’s excessive demands. While 
France is hopelessly dominated, resentment against Hitler will 
increase in the United States as the arms program advances. 
George VI, after the collapse of his prime minister, will flee to 
Canada. The Rome-Berlin axis will cease to. exist even in 
name and Italy become the merest vassal. De Gaulle will rally 
forces stationed in the East and lead an attack upon France 
through Italy, which will cause Germany to drop even the 
pretense of French independence. Despite the king's flight, .the 
British Isles will resist invasion and finally establish a com- 
pletely successful blockade of continental Europe. With the 
aid of the United States, Great Britain will launch a naval at- 
tack from the Western Hemisphere on Europe, securing -its 
first toehold near Bordeaux and advancing on Paris. Hitler^ 
will be defeated, and the peace terms, will take the form of a 
sort of Union Now under American domination. Great Britain 
will no longer rule, the waves nor hold the balance of power. 
The United States will take over both these functions, and with 
them establish a 'long reign of peace on earth. 

At this point the reader will pause and remark, 
“Sure. Interesting. Plausible-enough guesses, most of 
them. But what’s it doing in Unknown Worlds? - If 
this^£oes on, we’ll have Dorothy Thompson for Jane 
Rice and George Fielding Eliot replacing de Camp. 

But Unknown Worlds -is exactly where these con- 
jectures belong, because, you see, these prophecies, even 
down to the names of Hitler and de Gaulle, were writ- 
ten four centuries ago. 

You’ve guessed it. It’s Nostradamus again. When- 
ever the world isUn a worse than usual mess, people 
turn to the prophetic quatrains of this incredible six- 
teenth century French physician. But the last serious 
and extensive analysis of Nostradamus’ work in Eng- 
lish was written in 1891, and it’s time to re-examine 
the quatrains and see how much of the current situa- 
tion he has described and what can be gathered from 
him concerning the immediate future. 

Most Unknown Worlds readers are probably already 
acquainted with Michel de Nostredame, called Nostra- 
damus, through Henry James Forman’s excellent “The 
Story of Prophecy” — reviewed in Unknown for Decem- 



ber, 1939— through current popularizing articles, usu- 
ally both sensational and inaccurate, or through the film 
short subjects which have featured his -work. 

. To identify him in all brevity, Nostradamus was born 
in St. Rerny in 1503 and died at Salon, in 1566. In 
1529 he 'received the degree of Doctor of' Medicine at 
Montpellier, and practiced with distinction, particularly 
in combating the prevalent plagues. In 1555 he pub- 
lished the first seven centuries — groups of one hundred 
— of his prophecies. The Valois court, interested in 
the occult sciences, took him up as a favorite. In 1558 
he added three centuries to his collection. In 1559 
one of his prophecies was so startlinglyfulfilled that his 
fame became all but limitless. After his death, other 
prophecies, apparently authentic, were published by a 
Boswellian friend. *. v 

To convince you of his accuracy in the past, before 
we approach the present, here are three samples: 

I, 35* 

Le lyon jeune le vieux surmontera 
En champ bellique par singulier duelle: 

Dans cage d'or les yeux ltd cr ever a? 

Deux classes line, puis mourir, mart erne lie. 

The young lion shall conquer the old 
On the warlike field in single combat; 

In a golden cage he shall .pierce his -eyes, 

Two classes one, then die a cruel death. 

The last line is obscuref. But the remainder is in- 
credibly detailed and accurate. On July 10, 1559, four 
years after the publication of the quatrain, one. Captain 
Coryes, later the Earl of Montgomery, overthrew 
Henri II of France in a tourney, splintering his lance 



* The text of these quatrains is taken from Charles A. Ward, 
“Oracles of Nostradamus,’' 1891; reprinted with a supplement by 
Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1940. The only liberties taken with the 
text are the correction of an occasional wrong accent and the 
adaptation to conformity with modern usage of u, v, i, and j. 
The translations and interpretations are my own. 

t Cla88e, in Nostradamus, usually means fleet or army (Latin 
classis), but that meaning seems hard to fit in here. 



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against the king's armor and piercing the king’s eye 
through the bars of his golden helmet. The king died 
a cruel death in agony. Both men bore on their shields' 
the device of a lion. 

It is all there. The scene of combat, the devices and 
relative ages of the men, and above all, the singular 
detail of the piercing of 'the eye through the golden cage 
of the royal visor. Sure, I know, if you put a hundred 
monkeys at a hundred typewriters — But this is by 
no means all. Go on. 

IX, 18 

Le lys Dauffois portera dans Nanci 
Jusques en F land res elect eur de V Empire; 

Ncitfve obturee ate grand Montmorency , 

Hors lieux prouve delivre a clere peyne. 

He will bear the lily of the Dauphin into Nancy, 

As far as Flanders (for) the elector of the Empire; 
A new imprisonment for the great Montmorency, --'r 
Outside of the approved place delivered to notable 
punishment. 



The first two lines describe accurately enough some 
military movements of Louis XIII in 1633 and 1635. 
But what interests us is the last two. On October 30, 
1632, Montmorency was executed for rebellion. He 
had been imprisoned in the newly built Hotel de Ville 
at Toulouse. As a concession to his family, he was 
executed in an inclosed courtyard rather than at an 
approved public place of execution. 

That alone would be neat and impressive. But here 
is the payoff : As a further concession, he was executed, 
not by tKe public headsman, but by a private soldier. 
The phrase, notable punishment , is in French clere 
peyne. And the name of this soldier, to whom Mont- 
morency ,was delivered, was Clerepeyne. 

IV, 54 

Du nom qui onque ne fut tin Roi Gaulois 

Jamais ne fut un foudre si craintif . 

Tremblant Vltalie , VEspagne at les Anglois 

De femme estrangiers grandement attentif. 



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Of a name which never was (that of) a French king, 

Never was there so fearful a thunderbolt. 

Italy, Spain, and the English tremble. 

He will be greatly attentive to foreign women. 

The detailed application of this quatrain to Napoleon 
is too obvious to need any notes. 

Among other events precisely predicted by Nostra- 
damus may be mentioned the execution of Charles I 
by order of Parliament, the invention of gunpowder, 
the exact date (1666) of the great fire of London, the 
rise of the tiers . etat, and the flight and capture of 
Louis XVI, even down to the names of two of the 
men who betrayed him and a reference to the Tuileries, 
not even built at the -time the quatrain 'was written. 

It should be obvious from these excerpts that Nos- 
tradamus is worthy of serious consideration. But be- 
fore we go on to his prophecies of the present, two ques- 
tions arise. How did he' obtain these astounding re- 
sults, and why has no one been able to take advantage 
of them to avert the future ? 

The first question is impossible to answer. One 
quatrain (I, 1) suggests that Nostradamus may have 
employed the methods of the oracle of Apollo Didymeus 
at Branchidae, an oracle almost comparable to Delphi 
in ancient reputation. ‘ .Yet he claimed to be a loyal 
member of the Catholic church, which would seem to 
preclude any use of black magic or. paganism, and no 
accusation of heresy was ever brought against him. 
Simply by elimination, for there is no evidence to sup- 
port the suggestion, time travel appears to be the only 
method by which a good Catholic could achieve non- 
religious prophecy. 

The second question, if carefully considered, answers 
itself. The essence of true prophecy is that it must 
-be disbelieved or misinterpreted. If it can be circum- 
vented, it will be false. Cassandra, whom Apollo 
blessed with prophecy and cursed with an incredulous 
public, is the perfect archetype of the prophet. Nostra- 
damus realized this. He had first written his prophe- 
cies, we gather, clearly and in sequence. Then, fore- 



seeing the impossible contradiction of this procedure, 
he cast thein into cryptic quatrains, in the damnedest 
French you ever read, and shuffled them out of all time 
order. As a result, they can usually be interpreted 
only after the event. Attempts at reading the future 
result in such catastrophes as Bouys' confident proof 
to Napoleon that Nostradamus promised him victory 
forever, including a satisfactory invasion of England. 

That's why the title of this article. I'm trying the 
impossible, the interpretation of prophecy before the 
event . It's a long and shaky limb that I'm climbing 
out on. But file this copy of Unknown Worlds away 
carefully. It may make good ^reading in another year 
or two. 

A word before we take up the predictions .of -the 
present, on the difficulties of translating Nostradamus. 
His language is something dike a Chinese version of 
James Joyce — -Chinese, in that the words are frequently 
strung along together without prepositions, verbs, or 
even grammatical agreement j and Joycean, in that he is 
apt to form words at his own pleasure from roots in 
the classical or in other modern languages. He is also, 
like most cryptic prophets, fond, of puns and anagrams. 

As a result, an absolutely unbiased translation is im- 
possible. You have to know what you think the origi- 
nal means" before you can start putting it into intelligi- 
ble English. I have, tried to make these translations 
as direct and honest as possible, and to indicate when- % 
ever I am interpolating or interpreting ; but if you read 
French, by all means keep an eye on the original and 
make sure that I am not, with the best intentions in 
the world, slipping over a fast one. 

First let’s take a few lines at random : 

III, 7 ■ * 

Les fugitifs, fen du del sus les picques — 

Refugees, fire from heaven on the weapons — 

iii, n ^ n - . * 

Les arrnes batre an del longue saison — 

Weapons battling a long time in the sky — 




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VI, 34 

De feu volant la machination — 

The machination* of flying fire — 

III, 13 

— Quand submergee la classe nag era. 

— When the fleet will swim submerged. 

These are pretty enough, in a Vernesian way, as a 
prediction of modern warfare. But such predictions 
have been made often enough, and without any claims 
to supernatural prophetic powers ; and the rest of these 
four quatrains is not readily explicable. I quote them 
only because Nostradamus has often been praised for 
foreseeing the airplane and the submarine, and because 
of the possible pun in fire from heaven and flying fire . 
These poetical phrases could so easily mean lightning, 
or in German, Blitz. In other words, 

The machination of flying fire — 
might well mean 

The machinery of Blitz — 

But for more specific details of contemporary history: 

VII, 22 

Par fraude regne, forces expolier, 

La classe obsesse, passages a Vespie. 

Deux faincts amis se vie'ndront rallier, 

Esveillier hayne de long temps as sou pie. 

To despoil the realm, the armies by deceit, 

The fleet besieged, movements by spies. 

Two pretended friends will come to join together, 
To awaken a long-sleeping hatred. 

The first two lines give a succinct description of the 
Hitlerian approach to conquest; no other world con- 
queror has been as marked by the systematic use of 
deceit. - The identity of the two pretended friends is not 
hard to guess. The last line might refer either to anti- 
Semitism or to nationalism. 

V, 30 

Tout d Ventour de la grande cite 
Seront soldats logos par champs et vide: 

Donner Vassaut Paris Rome incite, 

Sur le pont tors sera faicte grand pille. 

All around the great city 

Soldiers will be lodged in country and town : 

(He will) make an attack on Paris, Rome (will be) 
incited (by this), 

Then a great deceit will be practiced at the bridge. 
The great city, in Nostradamus, is generally Paris, 
now surrounded by German troops. I confess to a 
little wishful translation in the 'third line, which reads 
literally 

To give the attack — Paris — Rome — incited. 

The words have to be put together somehow ; and the 
successful attack on France was the signal for Italy’s 
entrance into the war. As to the last line, you will re- 
call that one of the chief reasons for the ease of Ger- 
many’s entry into France was the treasonable neglect 
of certain officers to blow up bridges in retreat. 

-* In the obsolete sense of machinery . 



I, 20 

Tour , Orleans, Blois, Anger, Reims & Nantes, 
Cites vexecs par subit changement, 

Par langues estranges seront t endues tentes, 

F leave s, dards, Rcnes terre & mer tr emblement. 
Tour, Orleans, Blois, Anger, Reims and Nantes, 
Cities troubled by a sudden change, 

Tents will be set up by foreign tongues, 

Rivers, darts, Rennes, earth and sea a-trembling. 

I give the last line literally because, frankly, I have 
no idea what it means. If you can figure it out, fine. 
As a pun, fleuve, dards, Renes could be fleuves d’arene, 
or rivers of the arena, i . e., of blood. Or Rennes may 
be the ancient city in Bretany — in which case, watch 
out for that earthquake. 

Unintelligible though the last line may be, the first 
three are all too clear. A foreign army will set up its 
dominion in France and take over six specified cities. 
These six are not all bunched together, so that one 
could easily prophesy the same fate for all. They are 
widely scattered, but every one of them is within the 
border of occupied France . 

V, 94 

Translatera en la grand Germanie, 

Brabant & Flandres, Gand, Bruges, & Bolongne: 
La trefve fainte le grand due d’Armenie, 

Assaillira Vienne & la Cologne. 

He will take over into great Germany 
Brabant and Flanders, Ghent, Bruges and Boulogne : 
(After) a false armistice, the grand duke of Armenia 
Will attack Vienna and Cologne. 

Again the latter part is mysterious, and apparently 
as yet unfulfilled.* And again the first part is uncan- 
nily exact. The first four places mentioned are in Bel- 
gium, and Boulogne is one of the vital channel ports. 
We have then a total, in this and the preceding quatrain, 
of eleven cities and districts mentioned as falling under 
German domination, and eleven right out of eleven. 
The average isn’t bad. 

Ill, 63 

Romain pouvoir sera du tout d has: 

Son grand voisin imiter les vestiges: 

Occultes haines civiles & debats, 

Retarderont aux bouffons leur folks. 

Roman power will decline entirely: 

(He will) imitate the footsteps of his great neighbor: 
Hidden civil hatreds and dissensions 
Will hold back the follies of the clowns. 

This has all worked itself out. Roman power has 
become nothing, partly because of Mussolini’s feckless 
imitation of Hitler, partly — see, for instance, John 
Whitaker’s recent dispatches — because of internal dis- 
sension which hampers the effective operation of the 
machine. The last line even foreshadows the role which 
Italy now plays as the comedy relief of the war. 



* Warning for speculators : Due may mean, not duke, but duw, 

leader. If you could find a Soviet general born in the Republic 
of Armenia, you might have a pretty prophecy. Or Armenie may 
be a pun or an anagram. 



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V, 26 „ 

Le gent esclave par un hour Martial, 

Viendra en limit degre tant e s sieve e, . " * ' 

Changer out Prince, naistre tin provincial. 

Passer la mer copie aux monts levee . 

The Slavic people by one martial hour 
Will come to be raised in high esteem, 

They will change their prince, a provincial to.be born, 
To cross the sea, a force raised , in the mountains. 

The quatrain is not entirely clear ; but a Slavic peo- 
ple, who change their prince* and attain to one hour 
of glory by military resistance with forces of moun- 
taineers is a perfect brief description: of the last hours 
of Yugoslavia. Provincials, crossing the sea may sug- 
gest the Australian troops employed in the brief Balkan 
war; or' if you read, by a plausible-enough misprint, 
maistre for naistre— i. e., the master (will be) a provin- 
cial — it may refer to the appointment as second in com- 
mand of the Middle East forces of Lieutenant General 
Sir Thomas Blarney, born in New South Wales, who 
conducted the brave stand at Thermopylae. 

VI, 97 

Cinq & qnarante degree del bruslera 
Feu appwcher de la grand cite neuve 
his tant grande flamme e sparse sautera 
Quand on vcnidra des N or mans' fair e preuve . • 

(At) forty-five degrees the sky will burn 
Fire will approach the great new' city 
Suddenly a great scattered flame will leap 
When they wish to test the Normans. 

The Balkan conflict was the first test in a year of 
the British — Normans, as heirs to the Conqueror — • 
against the German machine. Belgrade— a new city as 
capital of a new State — is almost exactly on 45° north 
latitude. No other major city is so close to the line ; 
the only others coming even near are Venice, Turin, 
Portland (Oregon), and Harbin, none of % which could 
be appositely called new. (There are no cities at 45° 
south latitude.) The burning sky and leaping flame 
not only describe the devastation of Belgrade, but again 
suggest lightning, Blitz. 

So much, for the present. We have seen the Rome- 
Berlin axis, the invasion. of France, the collapse of Italy, * 
and the Balkan war all described, sometimes with as- 
tonishing detail. And now we go out on that linib.f 
Take one by one the sentences 'which form the hope- 
fully prophetic first paragraph of this article: 

The war will continue relentlessly . Attempts at a 
negotiated peace will be frustrated by Hitler's excessive 
demands. ■ - 

VIII, 2 bis 

Plusiers mendront, & parlcront de .paix, ' 

Entre Monarques & seigneurs bien puis sans: 

■* Notice even the title : not king or ruler, but prince, which was 
Paul's title as regent. _ 

t If the quatrains that follow seem less direct and cogent than 
those quoted from M. G. M. by Time (May 5, 1941, p. 92), remem- 
ber that the M. G. M. “quatrains" are, a careful and wishful past- 
ing together of significant lines from as many as three separate 
contexts. 



Mais ne sera accord 6 de si pres, 

Que ne se rendent plus qu’autres obeissans . 

Many will come and talk of peace 
Between monarchs and mighty lords:' 

But it will not be granted at once 
Unless they become even more submissive than 
others^ ' 

Notice that this attempt at peace is not between kings 
nor between nations.; but between monarchs and mighty 
lords. With the exception of France and Poland, all 
the countries so far involved on the British side of this 
war have been monarchies ; while the axis powers, nei- 
ther republics nor kingdoms, are ruled by mighty lords. 
VIII, 4 bis .v 

. Beaucoup de gens voudront pdrlementer N 
Aux grands seigneurs qui leur feront la guerre . 

On ne voudraen rien les esc outer , 

- Helas ! si Dien n’ envoy e paix en terre. 

Many people (or peoples, i. e., nations) will wish to 
parley 

With the great lord's who make war on them. 

A deaf ear will be turned to their pleas, 

Woe! unless God send peace on earth. 

This quatrain is a repetition of the preceding .one, 
but with a suggestion of some hope for papal interven- 
tion. / 

While Ft'ance is hopelessly dominated, resentment 
against Hitler will increase in the United States as the' 
arms program advances. 

V, 29 . 

La liberte ne sera recouvree, 

L } be cup era noir, fier, vilain, inique, . 

Quand la matiere du p.ont sera ouvree, 

D’Hister, Venise faschee la republique: 

Liberty will not be recovered, 

A black, proud, low-born, wicked man will occupy it, 
When the material of the bridge will be wrought, 

Of Hister, the republic (of) Venice (will be) vexed. 
That is the literal translation/ which needs, in previ- 
ous interpretations, tho additional note that Ister was 
the ancient name of the Danube. But now we have 
fun. I Have mentioned that every cryptic prophet is 
fond of puns and anagrams, and this quatrain is plum- 
rich in them. The first two lines quite probably refer 
to France; Nostradamus’ view of history was Gallicen- 
tric, and a reference without any proper name is usually 
to be taken as alluding to- France, In the fourth line 
we get the anagrams. 

Now a rule of anagrams in Nostradamus’ time was 
this: that it is fair to change one, and only one, letter 
of the original word in the reshuffling. So that, under 
this technical rule, Hister is a simple and correct ana- 
gram of Hitler . Venise, without any change at all (for 
u and v were interchangeable in sixteenth century ty- 
pography), becomes EE. (abbreviation for.. Etats 
"Unis), the United States. 

The third line is perhaps the prettiest. When the 
material of the bridge will be wrought — It seems an 
irrelevant minor point, scarcely worth mentioning in 



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prophecy. But the material of the bridge , in French, 
is la matiere du pont — that is, in the best tradition of 
the prophetic pun — like Clerepeyne above — Du Pont 
material, or armaments . 

To sum up these interpretations: 

France will not recover her liberty, 

But be occupied by a black, proud, low-born, wicked 
man. 

When armaments will be produced, 

The republic of the United States will be vexed with 
Hitler. 

George VI, after the collapse of his Prime Minister , 
ivill flee to Canada . 

IV, 45 

Par conflict Roy , regne abbcmdonnera , 

Les plus grand chef faillira au besoing, 

Mors profiigez pen en reschapera, 

Tours destranches, tin en sera tesnwing. 

Because of war, the king will abandon his realm, 



The greatest leader will fail in need, 

The vanquished dead, few will escape, 

The towers chopped down, one will be a witness 
thereof. 

The first two lines need no comment, save to say 
that the removal of the king from the British Isles is 
substantiated by another quatrain further on. The last 
two might seem to refer to a successful invasion, but 
other quatrains to be cited make that unlikely; they 
may denote a revolution accompanying the fall of the 
government. 

The Rome-Berlin axis will cease to exist even in 
name, and Italy become the merest vassal. This is im- 
plied in III, 63, quoted above, and still further in : 

V, 23 

Les deux contdns seront unis ensemble. 

Quand la pluspart a Mars seront conjoint: 

Le grand d’Affrique en effrayeur et tremble, 
Duumvirat par la classe desjoinct. 



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The two will be united together contented. 

When the greater part will be joined to Mars, 

The great man of Africa (will be) in fright and 
trembling, . ' • 

The duumvirate severed by the fleet. 

Or to interpret freely : The alliance will be satis- 

factory enough until the greater of the two undertakes, 
war in earnest Then the man who vaunted himself 
on his African conquests will collapse in fear, and the 
fleet (British crippling of Italian power in the Mediter- 
ranean?) will finally break the axis. 

De Gaulle will rally forces stationed in the East and 
lead an attack upon France through Italy — 

II, 29, . - 

U oriental sortira de son sibge , 

Passer les monts Appenons voir la Gaitle: 
Transpercera le del, les eaux et neige ' 

Et tin chacun f rap per a de sa gaule. 

The eastern one will leave his post, 

Cross the Apennine Mountains to behold France: 
He will' pierce heaven, water and snow, 

And strike everyone with his rod. - 
To cross the Apennines to behold France implies in- 
vasion somewhere near Genoa, crossing the Ligurian 
Apennines and the province of Liguria,' possibly also 
Piedmont and the Alps (piercing the snow). There 
may even be another pun here. The Pennine Alps, be- 
tween , Piedmont and France, are marked on French 
maps as A. Pennines , differing only in punctuation 
from Apennines . The third line is an excellent terse 
description of an invasion of southern France from the 
air,- by sea, and over the Alps. , 

All right, you say, but where does de Gaulle come 
in? Well, the word in the last line, translated by rod , 
is gaule . And this pun is very much to the front in 
French consciousness at the moment. You have doubt- 
less heard of students marching with fishing rods and 
crying “Vive de — ” then hoisting their rods, so that the 
patriotic charade reads, “Vive de Gaulle!”* 

— which will cause Germany to drop even the pre- 
tense of French independence . 

I, 61 

La republique miserable inf dice 
Sera vastec de nouveau magistral: 

Leur grand amas de lexil malefice 
Fera Sueve ravir leur grand contract . 

The wretched unhappy republic' 

Will be devastated by a new magistrate: 

Their great horde -of the maleficent exile’ 

Will make Swabia break their grand pact. 

Swabia, by a simple metonymy, represents Germany. 
In other words, the harmful invasion of the exile de 
Gaulle (maleficent not .necessarily in a bad sense, .but 

* Quote from UP dispatch dated Istanbul, June 4 : Travelers from 
Syria estimated today that 2,500 French soldiers accompanied Colo- 
nel Philibert Collet when he fled from Syria last* month-, to join 
the Free French forces of General Charles de Gaulle. Syrian na- 
tive troops were reported to be strongly in favor of de Gaulle. Ed. 



in its original meaning of wreaking injury) will enrage 
Germany to the point of breaking the armistice terms 
and appointing a despotic governor. 

Despite the king's flight , the British Isles will resist 
invasion and finally establish a completely successful 
blockade of continental Eurofe . 

Ill, 71 

• Ceux dans les isles de long temps assiegez, * 
Prendront vigour force contre enneniis: 

Ceux par dehors marts de faim profligez , " 

En plus grand faint que jamais seront mis . 

Those long besieged in the islands 
. Will take on vigor and force against (their) enemies: 
Those outside, dead, of hunger, defeated, > 

Will be placed in greater hunger than ever. 

The application of this quatrain needs no comment.- 
It is supported by the following, somewhat more 
cryptic: ' * - 

-X, 32 

Le grand empire chacun en devoit estre , 

Un sur les autre s le viendra obtenir: 

Mats pea de temps sera son r eigne & estre , 

Deux ans mix naves se pourra soustenir . 

Everyone should belong to the great empire, 

One above others will come to get it : 

But its reign and being will last a short time, 

For two years it will be able to sustain itself by ships. 
The first two lines are not clear; but the last two . 
offer a cheering hope of the collapse of the, German 
empire by successful blockade after two years. Query: 
two years from when? Not from the founding of the 
Third Reich, or it would already have come to pass. • 
Perhaps from the start of the war, which would fix the 
collapse for this fall; or perhaps from the beginning of 
effective blockading, the exact date of which would be 
hard to determine. 

With the aid of the United Stales, Great Britain will 
launch a naval attack front the Western Hemisphere 
on Europe, securing its. first toehold near Bordeaux and 
advancing on Paris: 

V, 34 

Du plus profond de VOccident Anglois 
Oil est le chef de lisle Britannique, 

Entrera class e dans Gyronde, par Blots 
Par vm et sel, feux cache z dux barriques. 

From the deepest (reaches) of the English west, 
Where the chief of the British Isle is, 

A fleet will enter Gironde, by Blois, 

By wine and salt, fires hidden in barrels. 

Gironde is a maritime department whose principal 
.city is Bordeaux. Blois lies on ,a direct line from Bor- 
deaux to Paris. Witte and salt is a figure frequently 
used by Nostradamus to denote vigor and force. Fires 
hidden in barrels may' refer to cask-shaped bombs ; or 
barriques (barrels) may stand by metonymy for barri- 
cades (originally made of barrels), implying fighting in * 
cities. You will notice how this quatrain confirms IV, 
45, The king will abandon his realm . For the aid of 



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99 



the United States in this venture, see the following 
quatrains. 

Hitler will be defeated* arid the peace terms will take 
the form of a sort of Union Now under American domi- 
nation . Great Britain will no longer rule the waves nor 
hold the balance of power . The United States will take 
over both these functions and with them establish a long 
reign of peace <m earth. 

IV, 96 

La soeur aisnee de VIsle Britannique, 

Quinze ans devant le frdre aura .naissance. 

Par son promis, moyennant verifique, 

Succedera au Regne de Balance . 

The elder sister of the British Isle 
Will be bom fifteen years before her brother. 
v Intervening by her true promise, 

She will succeed to the Rule of Balance. 

Obviously the first two lines must mean an elder 
sister and younger brother of the family of the British 
Isle ; an elder sister of the Isle itself could hardly come 
into being in Nostradamus* future. The birth of the 
United States is generally reckoned as taking place in 
1776. Fifteen years later the British Parliament passed 
the Canada Act of 1791, replacing the former system 
of soldier-governors with despotic powers by a limited 
self-government. The British had learned a lesson in 
their treatment of colonies ; this was the first grant of 
representative institutions by the Imperial Parliament. 
The existence of Canada as a democracy of freemen 
dates from this point, fifteen years after the birth of the 
“elder sister.** Further corroboration lies in the gram- 
matical fact that in French the United States are the 
Etats Unis d*AMERlQUE (feminine) and Canada is 
the Dominion du CANADA (masculine). 

* X, 100 

Le grand empire sera par Angleterre, 

Le pempotam des ans plus de trois cens: 

Grandes copies passer par met et terre, 

Les Lusitains n f en seront pas contens . 

The great empire will be for England, 
All-powerfulness for more than three hundred years : 
Great armies passing over sea and land, 

The Portuguese will not fie pleased. 

The last line has perplexed commentators, though I 
cannot see why. Surely no nation, which was once 
itself foremost in trade and colonizing, will be pleased 
to behold another rise up to rule the seas. The strange 
word pempotam is probably derived from the shocking 
Greek-Latin hybrid, pan-potens, all-powerful. More 
than three hundred years implies less than four hun- 
dred, and four hundred years from the publication of 
this quatrain comes to 1958. The time of the pan- 
potent empire is almost up. 

X, 42 . 

Le regne humain d’Anglique geniture, 

Fera son regne paix union tenir: 

Captive guerre demy de sa closture, 

* As implied in III, 71 and X, 32 above. 

THE 



Longtemps la paix leur fera maintenir . 

The human reign of English breed 

Will make its rule hold peace (and) union: 

War (will be) captive (in) half of its inclosure. 

It (this rule) will make them keep peace for a long 
time. 

Human reign is possibly in distinction to the divine 
reign of kings. The difficult third line seems to mean 
that war will be restricted to half of its former terri- 
tory — that is, that the perennial Sino- Japanese conflict 
may continue even after peace is established in Europe. 
The rest of the quatrain is clear enough ; and of all the 
prophecies in the centuries, there is none that^we could 
more devoutly long to see fulfilled. 

IX, 90 

Un capitaine de la Grand Germanie 
Se viendra rendre par. simule seccmrs 
Au Roy des Rays aide de Pannonie, 

Que sa revolte fera de sang gran cours . 

A captain of great Germany 

Will come to surrender himself through pretended aid 
To the King of Kings helper of Pannonia, 

So that his revolt will cause blood to flow free. 

The application of this quatrain to Rudolf Hess is 
patent enough at first glance, save for the third line. 
But Pannonia is the name of an old Roman province 
which embraced much of what was recently Yugoslavia. 

The load is heavy by now. The limb is trembling 
with my weight and that of all these quatrains. But 
go back, check over the incredible successes of Nostra- 
damus, in the past, consider the application of the cen- 
turies to the present, and then watch your newspapers 
carefully. 

When George VI arrives in Canada, remember that 
his coming was foreseen four hundred years ago . 

Editor's Note: The foregoing article on the prophecies of 

Nostradamus is thoroughly incredible. Nostradamus’ prophe- 
cies were thoroughly incredible — in the degree of their accuracy. 
Somehow it seems easier to believe that a man might success- 
fully predict the movements and broad sweeps -of the histories 
of nations than that, one, two, or four centuries before it hap- 
pens, the individual directly involved can fie named. To name 
properly and precisely the one individual in the world who will 
do a specified thing a century or four centuries before that man 
is born! That seems, somehow, beyond the realm of prophecy. 
That Nostradamus could name a nation that did not — and would 
not for two more centuries — exist, could name, even, a particu- 
lar corporation, specifying one of the products of that corpora- 
tion, seems even more improbable. Butr~he named a common 
-soldier who executed a named nobleman long before either 
was born. 

Anagrams and puns do exist in Nostradamus ; to read from 
his quatrains the names and exact circumstances seems much 
as though the interpreter were finding in them things the author 
had not put there. How could Nostradamus, A. D. 1558, have 
known of the Du Pont Corporation, of the Etats Unis, or that 
the Canada Act would be passed in 1791, fifteen years after 
the. American Declaration of Independence — and more than 
two and a quarter centuries after his writing? 

At any rate, the article herewith reached this office post- 
marked May 12, 1941. 

END. 



( 



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100 



SMOKE GHOST 

By Fritz Leiber, Jr. 




• The ghosts of old were white and misty things of 
the night. But the ghosts of todays black and grimy, 
soot filled cities might be very different things — 



. • v Illustrated by 

Miss Millick wondered just what had happened to 
Mr. Wran. He kept making the strangest remarks 
when she took dictation. Just this morning he had 
quickly turned around' and asked, “Have you ever seen, 
a ghost, Miss Millick ?” And she had tittered nerv- 
ously and replied, “When I was a girl there was a thing 
in white that used to come out of the closet in the attic 
bedroom when you slept there, and moan. Of course it 
was just my imagination. I was frightened of lots of 
things. ” And he had said, “I don’t mean that tradi- 
tional kind of ghost. I mean a ghost from the world 
today, with the soot of the factories in its face and the 



Edd Cartier 

a * ' 

pounding of machinery in its soul. The kind that would 
haunt coal yards and slip around at night through de- 
serted office buildings like this one. A real ghost. Not 
something out of books.” And she hadn’t known what 
to say. 

He’d never been like this before. Of course it might 
be joking, but it didn’t sound that way, Vaguely Miss 
Millick wondered -whether he mightn’t be seeking some 
sort of sympathy from her. Of course, Mr. Wran was 
married and had a little child, but that didn’t prevent 
her from having daydreams. She had daydreams about 
most of the men she worked for. The daydreams were 



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SMOKE GHOST 



101 



all very, similar in pattern and not very exciting, but 
they helped fill up the emptiness in her mind. And 
now he was asking her another of those disturbing and 
jarringly out-of-place questions. 

“Have you ever thought what a ghost of our times 
would look like, Miss Millick? Just picture it. A 
smoky composite face with the hungry anxiety of the 
unemployed, the neurotic restlessness of the person 
without purpose, the jerky tension of the high-pressure 
metropolitan worker, the sullen resentment of the 
striker, the callous viciousness of the strike breaker, 
the aggressive whine of the panhandler, the inhibited 
terror of the bombed civilian, and a thousand other 
twisted emotional patterns? Each one overlying and 
yet blending with the other, like a pile of semitrans- 
parent masks ?” 

Miss Millick gave a little self-conscious shiver and 
said, “My, that would be terrible. What an awful thing 
to think of” 

She peered at him furtively across the desk. Was he 
going crazy ? She remembered having heard that there 
had been something impressively abnormal about Mr. 
Wran’s childhood, but she couldn't recall what it was. 
If only she could do something — joke at him or ask him 
what was really wrong. She shifted around the extra 
pencils in her left hand and mechanically traced over 
some of the shorthand curlicues in her, notebook. 

“Yet, that's just what such a ghost or vitalized pro- 
jection would look like, Miss Millick,” he continued, 
smiling in a tight way. “It would grow out of the real 
world. It would reflect all the tangled, sordid, vicious, 
things. All the loose ends. And it would be very 
grimy. I don't think it would seem white or wispy or 
favor graveyards. It wouldn’t moan. But it would 
mutter unintelligibly, and twitch at your sleeve. Like a 
sick, surly ape. What would such a thing want from a 
person, Miss Millick? Sacrifice? Worship? Or just 
fear? What could you do to stop it from troubling 
you?” 

Miss Millick giggled nervously. She felt embarrassed 
and out of her depth. There was an expression beyond 
her powers of definition in Mr. Wran's ordinary, flat- 
cheeked, thirty-ish face, silhouetted against the dusty 
window. He turned away and stared out into the gray 
downtown atmosphere that rolled in from the railroad 
yards and the mills. When he spoke again his voice 
sounded far away. 

“Of course, being immaterial, it couldn’t hurt you 
physically — at first; You'd have to be peculiarly sensi- 
tive even to see it, or be aware of it at all. But it would 
begin to influence your actions. Make you do this. 
Stop you from doing that. Although only a projection, 
it would gradually get its hooks into the world of things 
as* they are. Might even get control of suitably vacuous 
minds. Then it could hurt whomever it wanted.” 

Miss Millick squirmed and tried to read back her 
shorthand, like books said you should do when there was 
a pause. She became aware of the failing light and 
wished Mr. Wran would ask her to turn on 'the over- 



head light. She felt uncomfortable and scratchy as if 
soot were sifting down on to her skin. 

“It’s a rotten world, Miss Millick,” said Mr. Wran, 
talking at the window. “Fit for another morbid growth 
of superstition. It’s time the ghosts, or whatever you 
call them, took over and began a rule of fear. They’d be 
no worse than men.” 

“But” — Miss Millick’s diaphram jerked, making her 
titter inanely — “of course there aren't any such things 
as ghosts.” 

Mr. Wran turned around. She noticed with a start 

. 'V 

that his grin had broadened, though without getting 
any less tight. 

“Of course there aren’t, Miss Millick,” he said in a 
sudden loud, reassuring, almost patronizing voice, as if 
she had been doing the talking rather than he. “Mod- 
ern science and common sense and better self-under- 
standing all go to prove it.” 

He stopped, staring past her abstractedly. She hung 
her head and might even have blushed if she hadn't felt 
so all at sea. Her leg muscles twitched, making her 
stand up’ although she hadn’t- intended to. She aim- 
lessly rubbed her hand back and forth along the edge of 
the desk, then pulled it back. 

“Why, Mr. Wran, look what I got off your desk,” she 
said, showing him a heavy smudge. There was a note 
of cumbersomely playful reproof in her voice, but she 
really just wanted to be saying something. “No wonder 
the copy I bring you always gets so black. Somebody 
ought to talk to those scrubwomen. They’re skimping 
on your room.” 

She wished he wouldmiake some normal joking reply. 
But instead he drew back and his face hardened. 

“Well, to get back to the letter to Fredericks,” he 
rapped out harshly, and began to dictate. 

When she was gone he jumped up, dabbed his finger 
experimentally at the smudged part of the desk, frowned 
worriedly at the almost inky smears. He jerked open a 
drawer, snatched out a rag, hastily swabbed off the 
desk, crumpled the rag into a ball and tossed it back. 
There were three or four other rags in the drawer, each 
impregnated with soot. 

Then he strode over to the window and peered out 
anxiously through the gathering dusk, his eyes search- 
ing the panorama of roofs, fixing on each chimney, each 
water tank. 

“It’s a psychosis. Must be. Hallucination. Com- 
pulsion neurosis,” he muttered to himself in a tired, dis- 
traught voice that would have made Miss Millick gasp. 
“Good thing I’m seeing the psychiatrist tonight. It’s 
that damned mental abnormality cropping up in a new 
form. Can’t be any other explanation. Can’t be. But 
it’s so damned real. Even the soot. I don’t think I 
could force myself to get on the elevated tonight. Good 
thing I made the appointment. The doctor will know — ” 
His voice trailed off, he rubbed his eyes, and his mem- 
ory automatically started to grind. 

It had all begun on the elevated. There was a par- 
ticular little sea of roofs he had grown into the habit of 



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102 UNKNOWN WORLDS . • ■ 

glancing at just as the packed car carrying him home- nearer parapet, waiting. Then he dismissed the whole 
ward lurched around a turn. A dingy, melancholy lit- subject. 

tie world of tar paper, tarred gravel, and smoky brick. The next time he felt the familiar grating lurch of the 
Rusty tin chimneys with odd conical hats suggested 'car, he caught himself trying not to look out. That an- 
abandoned listening posts. There was a washed-out gered him. He turned his head quickly. When he 

advertisement of some ancient patent medicine on the _ turned it back, his compact face was definitely pale, 

nearest wall. Superficially it was like ten thousand There had only been time for a fleeting rearward glance 

other drab city roofs. But he always saw it around at the escaping roof. Had he actually seen in silhouette 

dusk, either in the normal smoky half-light, or tinged the upper part of a head of some sort peering over the 

with red by the flat rays of a dirty sunset, or covered parapet? Nonsense, he told himself. And even if he 

by ghostly windblown white sheets of rain-splash, or had seen something, there were a thousand explanations 

patched with blackish snow ; and it seemed unusually which did not involve the supernatural or even true 

bleak and suggestive, almost beautifully ugly, though in hallucination. Tomorrow he would take a good look 

no sense picturesque; dreary but meaningful. Uncon- and clear up the whole matter. If necessary, he would 

sciously it came to symbolize for Catesby Wran certain visit the roof personally, though he hardly knew where 

disagreeable aspects of the frustrated, frightened cen- to find it and disliked in any case the idea of pampering 

tury in which he lived, the jangled century of hate and a whim of fear. ' 

heavy industry and Fascist wars. The quick, daily 

glance into the half darkness became an integral part of He did not relish the walk home from the elevated 
his life. Oddly, he never saw it in the morning, for it that evening, and visions of the thing disturbed his 

was then his habit to sit on the other side of the car, his dreams and were <in and out of his mind all next day at 

head buried in the paper. the office. It was then that he first began to relieve his 

One evening toward winter he noticed what seemed nerves by making jokingly serious remarks about the 

to be a shapeless black sack lying on the third roof from supernatural. to Miss Millick, who seemed properly mys- 

the tracks. He did not think about it. It merely regis- tified. It was on the same day, too, that he became 

tered as an addition to the well-known scene and his aware of a growing antipathy to grime and soot. Every- 

memory stored away the impression for further refer- thing he touched seemed gritty, and he found himself 

ence. Next evening, however, he decided he had been mopping and wiping at his desk like an old lady with a 

mistaken in one detail. The object was^a roof nearer morbid fear of germs. He reasoned that there was no 

than he had thought. Its color and texture, and the real change in his office, and that he’d just now become 

grimy stains around it, suggested that it was filled with sensitive to the dirt that had always been there, but 

coal dust, which wasr hardly reasonable. Then, too, the there was no denying an increasing nervousness. Long 

following evening it seemed to have been blown against before the car reached the curve, he was straining his 

a rusty ventilator by the wind — which could hardly have eyes through the murky twilight determined to take in 

happened if it were at all heavy. Perhaps it was filled every detail. 

with leaves. Catesby was surprised to find himself Afterward he realized that he must have given a 
anticipating his next daily glance with a minor note of muffled cry of some sort, for the man beside him looked 

apprehension. There was something unwholesome in at him curiously, and the woman ahead gave him an 

the posture of the thing that stuck in his mind — a bulge unfavorable stare. Conscious of his own pallor and un- 

in the sacking that suggested a misshapen head peering controllable trembling, he stared back at them hungrily, 

around the ventilator. And his apprehension was jus- trying to regain the feeling of security he had completely 

tified, for that evening the thing was on the nearest roof, lost. They were the usual reassuringly 'wooden-faced 

though on the farther side, looking as if it had just people everyone rides home with on the elevated. But 

flopped down^over the low brick parapet. suppose he had pointed out to one of them what he had 

Next evening the sack was gone. Catesby was an- seen — that sodden, distorted face of sacking and coal 

noyed at the momentary feeling of relief that went dust, that boneless paw which waved back and forth, 

through him, because the whole matter seemed too un- unmistakably in his direction, as if reminding him of a 

important to warrant feelings of any sort. What differ- -future appointment — He involuntarily shut his eyes 
ence did it make if his imagination had played tricks on tight. His thoughts were racing ahead to tomorrow 
him, and he’d fancied that the object was crawling and evening. He pictured this same windowed oblong of 

hitching itself slowly closer across the roofs? That was light and packed humanity surging around the curve — 

the way any normal, imagination worked. He deliber- then an opaque monstrous form leaping out from the 
ately chose to disregard the fact that there were reasons^ roof in a parabolic swoop — an unmentionable face 
for thinking his imagination was by no means a normal pressed close against the window, smearing it with wet 
one. As he walked home from the elevated, however, he coal dust — huge paws fumbling sloppily at the glass — - 
found himself wondering whether the sack was really Somehow he managed to turn off his wife’s anxious 
gone. He seemed to recall a vague, smudgy trail lead- inquiries. Next morning he reached a decision and 

ing across the gravel to the nearer side of the roof. For made an appointment for that evening with a psychia- 

an instant an unpleasant picture formed in his mind — trist a friend had told him about. It cost him a consid- 

that of an inky, humped creature crouched behind the^ erable effort for Catesby had a peculiarly great and very 

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103 



well-grounded distaste for anything dealing. with psycho- 
logical abnormality. Visiting a psychiatrist meant rak- 
ing up an episode in his past which he had never fully 
described even to his wife and which Miss Millick only 
knew of as “something impressively abnormal about 
Mr. Wran's childhood.” Once he had made the deci- 
sion, however, he felt considerably relieved. The doc- 
tor, he told himself, would clear everything up. He 
could almost fancy the doctor saying, “Merely a bad 
case of nerves. However, you must consult the oculist 
whose name I’m writing down for you, and you must 
take two of these pills in water every hour,” and so on. 
It was almost comforting, and made the coming revela- 
tion he would have to make seem less painful. 

But as the smoky dusk rolled in, his nervousness re- 
turned and he let his joking mystification of Miss Mil- 
lick run away with him until he realized that he wasn't 
frightening anyone but himself. 

He would have to keep his imagination under better 
control, he told himself, as he continued to peer out rest- 
lessly at the massive, murky shapes of the downtown 
office buildings. Why, he had spent the whole afternoon 
building up a kind of neomedieval cosmology of super- 
stition. It wouldn't do. He realized then that he had 
been standing at the window much longer than he'd 
thought, for the glass panel in the door was dark and 
there was no noise coming from the outer office. Miss 
Millick and the rest must already have gone home. 

It was then he made the discovery that there would 
have been no special reason for dreading the swing 
around the curve that night. It was, as it happened, a 
horrible discovery. For, on the shadowed roof across 
the street and four stories below, he saw the thing hud- 
dle and roll across the gravel and, after one upward 
look of recognition, merge into the blackness beneath the 
water tank. 

As he hurriedly collected his things and made for the 
elevator, fighting the panicky impulse to run, he began 
to think of hallucination and mild psychosis as very de- 
sirable conditions. For better or for worse, he pinned 
all his hopes on the doctor. 

“So you find yourself growing nervous and . . . er , . . 
jumpy, as. you put it," said Dr. Trevethick, smiling with 
dignified geniality. “Do you notice any more definite 
physical symptoms ? Pain? Headache? Indigestion?" 

Catesby shook his head and wet his lips. “I'm espe- 
cially nervous while riding in the elevated,” he mur- 
mured swiftly. 1 

“I see. Well discuss that more fully. But I’d like 
you first to tell me about something you mentioned 
earlier. You said there was something about your 
childhood that might predispose you to nervous ail- 
ments. ' As you know, the early years are critical ones 
in the development of an individual's behavior pattern.” 

Catesby studied the yellow reflections of frosted 
globes in the dark surface of the desk. The palm of his 
left hand aimlessly rubbed the thick nap of the armchair. 
After a while he raised his head and looked straight into 
the doctor's small brown eyes. 



“From perhaps my third to my ninth year,” he began, 
choosing the words with care, “I was what you might 
call a sensory prodigy.” 

The doctor's expression did not change. “Yes?” he 
inquired politely. 

“What I mean is that I was supposed to be able to see 
through walls, read letters through envelopes and books 
through their covers, fence and play Ping-pong blind- 
folded, find things that were buried, read thoughts.” 
The. words tumbled out. 

“And could you?” The doctor’s expression was tone- 
less. 

, “I don't know. I don't suppose so,” answered 
Catesby, long-lost emotions flooding back into his voice. 
“It's all so confused now. I thought I could, but then 
they were always encouraging me. My mother . . . was 
. . . well . . . interested in psychic phenomena. I was . . . 
exhibited. I seem to remember seeing things other peo-' 
pie couldn't. As if most opaque object's were transpar- 
ent. But I was very young. I didn't have any scientific 
criteria for judgment.” 

He was reliving it now. The darkened rooms. The 
earnest assemblages of gawking, prying adults. Him- 
self sitting alone on a little platform, lost in a straight- 
backed wooden chair. The black silk handkerchief over 
his eyes. His mother's coaxing, insistent questions. 
The whispers. The gasps. His own hate of the whole 
business, mixed with hunger for the adulation of adults. 
Then the scientists from the university, the experiments, 
the big test. The reality of those memories engulfed 
him and momentarily made him forget the reason why 
he was disclosing them to a stranger. 

“Do I understand that your mother tried to make use 
of you as a medium for communicating with the . . . er 
. . . other world?” 

Catesby nodded eagerly. 

“She tried to, but she couldn't. When it came to get- 
ting in touch with the dead, I was a complete failure. 
All I could do — or thought I could do — was see real, 
existing, three-dimensional objects beyond the vision of 
normal people. Objects they could have seen except for 
distance, obstruction, or darkness. It was always a dis- 
appointment to mother,” he finished slowly. 

He, could hear her sweetish patient voice saying, “Try 
again, dear, just this once. Katie was your aunt. She 
loved you. Try to hear what she's saying.” And he 
had answered, “I can see a woman in a blue dress stand- 
ing on the other side of Jones’ house.” And she had re- 
plied, “Yes, I know, dear. But that's not Katie. Katie’s 
a spirit. Try again. Just this once, dear.” For a sec- 
ond time the doctor’s voice gently jarred him back into 
the softly gleaming office. 

“You mentioned scientific criteria for judgment, Mr. 
Wran. As far as you know, did anyone ever try To 
apply them to you?” 

Catesby's nod was emphatic. 

“They did. When I was eight, two young psycholo- 
gists from the university here got interested in me. I 
guess they considered it a joke at first, and I remember 



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UNKNOWN WORLDS 



being very determined to show them I amounted to Catesby swallowed. He had felt an increasing eager- 
something. Even now I seem to recall how the note of ness to unburden himself of his fears, but it was not easy 

polite superiority and amused sarcasm drained out of to make a beginning, and the doctor's shrewd question 

their voices. I suppose they decided at first that it was rattled him. He forced himself to concentrate. The 

very clever trickery, but somehow they persuaded thing he thought he had seen on the roof loomed up be- 

mother to let them try me out under controlled condi- fore his* inner eye with unexpected vividness. Yet it did 

tions. There were lots of tests that seemed very busi- not frighten him. He groped for words, 

nesslike after mother's slipshod little exhibitions. They Then he^saw that the doctor was not looking at him 
found I was still clairvoyant — or so they thought. I but over his shoulder. Color was draining out of the 

got worked up and on edge. They were going to dem- doctor's face and his eyes did not seem so small. Then 

onstrate my supernormal sensory powers to the uni- the doctor sprang to his feet, walked past Catesby, 

versity psychology faculty. For the first time I began threw open the window and peered into the darkness, 

to worry about whether I’d come through. Perhaps As ‘Catesby rose, the- doctor slammed down the win- 
they kept me going at top hard a pace, I, don't know. dow and said in a voice whose smoothness was marred 

At any rate, when the test came, I couldn't do a thing. by a slight, persistent gasping, “I hope I haven't alarmed 

Everything became opaque. I got desperate and made you. I saw the face of . . . er . . . a Negro prowler on 

things up out of my imagination. I lied. In. the end I the fire escape. I must have frightened him, for he 

failed utterly, and I believe the two young psychologists seems to have gotten out of sight in a hurry. Don’t give 
lost their jobs as a result." V it another thought. Doctors are frequently bothered by 

He could hear the brusque, bearded man saying, voyeurs ... er . Peeping Toms." 

“You've been taken in by a child, Flaxman, a mere “A Negro?" asked Catesby, moistening his lips, 

child. I'm greatly disturbed. You've put yourself on The doctor laughed nervously. 4 T imagine so, though 

the same plane as common charlatans. Gentlemen, I my first odd impression was that it was a white man in 

ask you to banish from your minds this whole sorry blackface. You see, the color didn't seem to have any 

episode. It must never be referred to." He winced at brown in it. It was dead-black." 

the recollection of his feeling of guilt. But at the same Catesby moved toward the window. There were 
time he was beginning to feel exhilarated and almost smudges pn the glass, “It's quite all right, Mr. Wran," 

light-hearted. Unburdening his long-repressed mem- The doctor's voice had acquired a sharp note of impa- 

ories had altered his whole viewpoint. The episodes tience, as if he were trying hard to get control of hirh- 

on the elevated began to take on what seemed their self and reassume his professional authority. “Let’s 

proper proportions as merely the bizarre workings of continue our conversation. I was asking you if you 

overwrought nerves, and an < overly suggestible mind, were" — he made a face— “seeing things." 

The doctor, he anticipated confidently, would disen- Catesby's whirling thoughts slowed down and locked 
tangle the obscure subconscious causes, whatever they into place. “No, I'm not seeing anything . . .' other 

might be. And the whole business would be finished people don’t see, too. ’ And I think I'd better go now. 

off quickly, just as his childhood ■ experience — which I’ve been keeping you too long." He disregarded the 

was beginning to seem a little ridiculous now — had been doctor's half-hearted gesture of denial. “I’ll phone you 

finished off. about the physical, examination. In a way you’ve al- 

“From that day on," he continued, “I never exhibited ready taken a big load off my mind." He smiled wood- 

a trace of my supposed powers. My mother was fran- enly. “Good night* Dr, Trevethick." . 

tic, and tried to sue the university. I had something- 

like a nervous breakdown. /Then the divorce was Catesby Wran's mental state was a peculiar one. 
granted, and my father got. custody of me. He did his His. eyes searched every angular shadow and he glanced 

best to make me forget it. We went on long outdoor sideways down each chasmlike alley and barren base- 

vacations, and did a lot of athletics, associated with nor- ment passageway and kept stealing looks at the irregu- 

mal, matter-of-fact ^people. ;I went to business college ^ lar line of the roofs, ’yet he was hardly conscious of 
eventually. I'm in advertising, now. But," Catesby . where he was. going in a general way. He pushed away 
paused, “now that I'm having nervous symptoms, I'm the thoughts that came into his mind, and kept moving, 

wondering if there- mightn't be a connection. It's not a He became ‘aware of a slight sense of security as he 

question of whether I really was clairvoyant or not. turned into a lighted street where there were people and 
Very likely my, mother taught me a lot of unconscious high buildings and blinking signs. After ajvvhile he 
deceptions, good enough even to fool young psychology found himself in the dim lobby of the structure that 
instructors. But- don't you think it may have some im-^ housed his office. Then he realized why he couldn't go 
portant bearing on my present condition?" ^ / home — because he might cause his wife and baby to see 

For several moments the doctor regarded him with a * it, just as the doctor had seen it. And the baby, only 
slightly embarrassing professional frown. Then he said two years old. 7 

quietly, “And is there some . . . er . . . more specific “Hello, Mr; Wran," said the night elevator man/ a 
connection between your experiences then and now?, burly figure in blue overalls, sliding open the grille- 
Do you by any chance find that you are once again work door to the old-fashioned cage. “I .didn't know 
beginning to . . . er . . . see things?" you were working nights now." 

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Catesby stepped in automatically. "Sudden rush of 
orders/' he murmured inanely. "Some stuff that has to 
be gotten out." 

The cage creaked to a stop at the top floor. "Be 
working very late, Mr. Wran?" 

He nodded vaguely, \yatched the car slide out of sight, 
found his keys, swiftly crossed the outer office,, and en- 
tered his own. His hand went out to the light switch, 
but then the thought occurred to him that the two 
lighted windows, standing out against the dark bulk of 
the building, would indicate his whereabouts and serve 
as a goal toward which something could crawl and 
climb. He moved his chair so that the back was against 
the wall and sat down in the semidarkness. He did not 
remove his overcoat. 

For a long time he sat there motionless, listening to 
his own breathing and the faraway sounds from the 
streets below ; the thin metallic surge of the crosstown 
streetcar, the farther one of the elevated, faint lonely 
cries and honkings, indistinct rumblings. Words he 
had spoken .to Miss Millick in nervous jest came back to 
him with the bitter taste of truth. He found himself 
unable to reason critically or connectedly, but by their 
own volition thoughts rose up into his mind and gyrated 



slowly and rearranged themselves, with the inevitable 
movement of planets. 

Gradually his mental picture of the world was trans- 
formed. No longer a world of material atoms and 
empty space, but a world in which the bodiless existed 
and moved according to its own obscure laws or unpre- 
dictable impulses. The new picture illumined with 
dreadful clarity certain general facts which had always 
bewildered and troubled him and from which he had 
tried to hide ; the inevitability of hate and war, the dia- 
bolically timed mischances which wrecked the best of 
human intentions, the walls of willful misunderstanding 
that divided one man from another, the eternal vitality 
of cruelty and ignorance and greed. They seemed ap- 
propriate now, necessary parts of the picture. And 
superstition only a kind of wisdom. 

Then his thoughts returned to himself, and the ques- 
tion he had asked Miss Millick came back, "What would 
such a thing want from a person? Sacrifices? Wor- 
ship ? Or just fear ? What could you do to stop it from 
troubling you ?" It had now become a purely practical 
question. 

With an explosive jangle, the phone began to ring. 
"Cate, I’ve been trying everywhere to get you," said his 




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UNKNOWN WORLDS 



wife, “I never thought you’d be at the office. What 
are you doing? I’ve been worried.” 

He said v something about work. 

“You’ll be home right away?” came the faint anxious 
question! “I’m a little. frightened. Ronny just had a 
scare. It woke him up. He kept pointing to the win- 
dow saying, ‘Black man, black man.’ Of course it’s 
something he dreamed. But I’m frightened. You will 
be home? What’s that, dear? Can’t you hear me?” 
“I will. Right away,” he said. Then he was out of 
the office, 'buzzing the night bell and peering down the 
shaft. ' 

He saw it peering up the shaft. at him from three 
floors below, v the sacking face pressed close against the 
iron grille-work. It started up the stair at a shockingly 
swift, shambling gait, .vanishing, temporarily from sight 
as it swung into the second corridor below: 

Catesby clawed at the door to the office, realized he 
had not locked it, pushed it in, slammed and locked it 
behind him, retreated to the other side of the room, 
cowered betweenthe filing cases and the wall. His 
teeth were clicking. He heard the groan: of the rising 
cage. A silhouette darkened the frosted glass of the 
door, blotting out part of the grotesque reverse of the 
company name. After a little the door opened. 

The big-globed overhead light flared on and, standing 
just inside the door,, her hand on the switch, he saw 
Miss Millick. 

“Why, Mr. Wran,” she stammered vacuously, “I 
didn’t know you were here. I’d just come in to do 
some extra typing after the movie. I didn’t . . . but the 
lights weren’t on. What were you — ” 

He stared at her. He wanted to shout in relief, grab 
hold of her, talk rapidly. He realized he was grinning 
hysterically. 

“Why, Mr. Wran, what’s happened to you?” she 
asked embarrassedly, ending with a stupid titter. “Are 
you feeling sick? Isn’t there something I can do for 
you?” .. 

He shook his head jerkily, and managed to say, “No, 
I’m just leaving. I was doing some extra work myself.” 
“But you look sick,” she insisted, and walked over 
toward him. He inconsequentially realized she must 
have stepped in mud, for her high-heeled shoes left neat 
black prints. 

- “Yes, I’m sure you must be sick. You’re so terribly 
pale.” She sounded like an enthusiastic, incompetent 
nurse. Her face brightened with a sudden inspiration. 
“I’ve got something in my bag that’ll fix you up right 
away,” _she said. “It’s for indigestion.” 

She fumbled at her stuffed oblong purse. He noticed 
that she was absent-mindedly holding it shut with one 
hand while she tried to open it with the other: Then, 

under his very eyes, he saw her bend back the thick 
prongs of metal locking the purse as if they were tin- 
foil, or as if her fingers had become a pair of steel pliers. 

Instantly his memory recited the words he had spoken 
to Millick that afternoon. “It couldn’t hurt you physi- 
cally — at first . . ; gradually get its hooks into the world 



. . . might even get control of suitably vacuous minds. 
Then it could hurt whomever it wanted.” A sickish, 
cold feeling came to a focus inside him. He began to 
edge toward the door. 

But Miss Millick hurried ahead of him. 

“You don’t have to wait, Fred,” she called. “Mr. 
Wran’s decided to stay a while longer.” 

The door to the cage shut with a mechanical rattle. 
The cage creaked. Then she turned around in the door. 

“Why, Mr. Wran,” she gurgled reproachfully, “I just 
couldn’t think of letting you go home now. I’m sure 
you’re terribly unwell. Why, you might collapse in the 
street. You’ve Just got to stay here until you feel dif- 
ferent.” 

The creaking died away. He stood in the center of 
the office motionless. His eyes traced the course of 
Miss Millick’s footprints to where she stood blocking 
the door. Then a sound that was almost a scream was 
wrenched out of him, for he saw that the flesh of her 
face was beginning to change color ; blackening until the 
powder on it was a sickly white dust, rouge a hideous 
pinkish one, lipstick a translucent red film. It was the 
same with her hands and with the skin beneath her thin 
silk stockings. 

“Why, Mr. Wran,” she said, “you’re acting as if you 
were crazy. You must lie down for a little while. Here, 
I’ll help you off with your coat.” 

The nauseously idiotic and rasping note, was the* 
same ; only it had been intensified. As she came toward 
him he turned and ran through the storeroom, clattered 
a key desperately at the lock of the second door to the 
corridor, 

“Why, Mr. Wran,” he heard her call, “are you hav- 
ing some kind of fit? You must let me help you.” 

The door came open and he plunged out into the cor- 
ridor and up the stairs immediately ahead. It was only 
when he reached the top that he realized the heavy steel 
door in front of him led to the roof. He jerked up the 
catch. 

“Why, Mr. Wran, you mustn’t run away. I’m com- 
ing after you.” ’ . • 

Then he was out on the gritty tar paper of the roof, 
the night sky was clouded, and murky, with a faint pink- 
ish glow from the neon signs. From the distant mills 
rose a ghostly spurt of flame. He ran to the edge. The 
street lights glared dizzily upward. Two men walking 
along were round blobs of hat and shoulders. He swung 
around.^ 

The thing was iri the doorway. The voice was no 
longer solicitous but moronically playful, each sentence 
ending in a titter. 

“Why, Mr. Wran, why have you come up here? 
We’re all alone. JustJhink,T might push you off.” 

The thing came slowly toward him. He moved back- 
ward until his heels touched the low parapet. Without 
knowing why or what he was, going to do, he dropped 
to his knees. The black, coarse-grained face came 
nearer, a focus for the worst in the world, a gathering 
point for poisons from everywhere. Then the lucidity 



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107 



of terror took possession of his mind, and words formed 
on his lips. 

"I will obey you. You are my god,” he said. “You 
have supreme power over man and his animals and his 
machines. You rule this city and all others. I recog- 
nize that.’ Therefore spare me.” 

Again the titter, closer. “Why, Mr. Wran, you never 
talked like this before. Do you mean it?” 

“The world is yours to do, with as you will, save or 
tear to pieces,” He answered fawningly, as the words 
automatically fitted themselves together into vaguely 
liturgical patterns. “I .recognize that. I will praise, I 
will sacrifice. In smoke and soot and flame I will wor- 
ship you forever.” 

The voice did not answer. He looked up. There was 
only Miss Millick, deathly pale and swaying drunkeniy. 
Her eyes were closed. He caught her as she wobbled 
toward him. His knees gave way under the added 
weight and they sank down together on the roof edge. 

After a while she began to twitch. Small wordless 
noises came from her throat, and her eyelids edged 
open. 

“Come on, well go downstairs,” he murmured jerkily, 
trying to draw her up. “You're feeling bad.” 

“I'm terribly dizzy,” she whispered. “I must have 
fainted. I didn't eat enough. And then I'm so nervous 
lately, about the war and everything, I guess. Why, 
we're on the roof! Did you bring me up here to get 
some air? Or did I come up without knowing it? I'm 
awfully foolish. I used to walk in my sleep, my mother 
said.” 

As he helped her down tKe stairs, she turned and 
looked at him. “Why, Mr. Wran,” she said, faintly, 
“you’ve got a big smudge on your forehead. Here, let 
me get it off for you.” Weakly she rubbed at it with 
her handkerchief. She started to sway again and he 
steadied her. 

“No, I'll be all right,” she said. “Only I feel cold. 
What happened, Mr. Wran? Did I have some sort 
of fainting spell?” 

He told her it was something like that. 



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Later, riding home in an empty elevated car, he won- 
dered how long he would be safe from the thing, It 
was a purely practical problem. He had no way of 
knowing, but instinct told him he had satisfied the brute 
for some time. Would it want more when it came 
again? Time enough to answer that question when it 
arose. It might be hard, he realized, to keep out of an 
insane asylum. With Helen and Ronny to protect, as 
well as himself, he would have to be careful and tight- 
lipped. He began to speculate as to how many other 
men and women had seen the thing or -things like it, 
and knew that mankind had once again spawned a ghost 
world, and that superstition once more ruled. 

The elevated slowed and lurched in a familiar fashion. 
He looked at the roofs again, near the curve. They 
seemed very ordinary, as if what made them impressive 
had gone away for a while. 

THE END. 



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108 



A GNOME THERE WA 

By Henry Knttrier 




acted anyway. So— he didn't stay a gnome, but — 

' Illustrated by Edd Cartier 



Tim Crockett should never have sneaked into the 
- mine on Dornsef Mountain. What is winked at in 
California may have disastrous results in the coal mines 
of Pennsylvania. Especially when gnomes are involved. 

Not that Tim Crockett knew about the gnomes. He 
was just investigating conditions among the lower 
classes, to use his own rather ill-chosen words. He was 
one of a group of southern Californians who had de- 
cided that labor needed them. They were wrong. They 
needed labor — at least eight hours of it a day. t 



Crockett, like his colleagues, considered the laborer a 
combination of a gorilla and The Man with the Hoe, 
probably numbering the Kallikaks among his ancestors. 
He spoke fierily of downtrodden minorities, wrote in- 
cendiary articles for the group's organ — Earth — and 
deftly maneuvered himself out of entering his, father's 
law office as a clerk. He had, he said, a mission. Un- 
fortunately, he got little sympathy from either the work- 
. ers or their oppressors. ' - 

A psychologist could have analyzed Crockett easily 



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A GNOME THERE WAS 



109 



enough. He was a tall, thin, intense-looking young 
man, with rather beady little eyes, and a nice taste in 
neckties. • All he needed was a vigorous kick in the 
pants. 

But — definitely ! — not administered by a gnome ! 

He was junketing through the country, on his father’s 
money, investigating labor conditions, to the profound 
annoyance of such laborers as he encountered. It was 
with this idea in mind that he surreptitiously got into 
the Ajax Coal Mine — or, at least, one shaft of it, after 
disguising himself as a miner and rubbing his face well 
with black dust. Going down in the lift, he looked 
singularly untidy in the midst of a group of well- 
scrubbed faces. Miners look dirty only after a day’s 
work. 

Dornsef Mountain is honeycombed, but not with the 
shafts of the Ajax Co. The gnomes have ways of block- 
ing their tunnels when humans dig too close. The whole 
place was a complete confusion to Crockett. He let 
himself drift along with the others, till they began to 
work. A filled car rumbled past on its tracks. Crockett 
hesitated, and then sidled over to a husky specimen who 
seemed to have the marks of a great sorrow stamped on 
his face. 

“Look,” he said, “I want to talk to you.” 

“Inglis ?” asked the other inquiringly. “Viskey. 
Chin. Vine. Hell.” 

Having thus demonstrated his somewhat incomplete 
command of English, he bellowed hoarsely with laugh- 
ter and returned to work, ignoring the baffled Crockett, 
who turned away to find another victim. But this sec- 
tion of the mine seemed deserted. Another loaded car 
rumbled past, and Crockett decided to see where it came 
from. He found out, after banging his head painfully 
and falling fiat at least five times. 

It came from a hole in the wall. Crockett entered it, 
and simultaneously heard a hoarse cry from behind him. 
The unknown requested Crockett to come back. 

“So I can break your slab-sided neck,” he promised, 
adding a stream of sizzling profanity. “Come outa 
there!” 

Crockett cast one glance back, saw a gorillalike 
shadow lurching after him, and instantly decided that 
his stratagem had been discovered. ' The owners of the 
Ajax mine had sent a strong-arm man to murder him — 
or, at least, to beat him to a senseless pulp. Terror lent 
wings to Crockett's flying feet. He rushed on, fran- 
tically searching for a side tunnel in which lie might 
lose himself. The bellowing from behind re-echoed 
against the walls. Abruptly Crockett caught a signifi- 
cant sentence clearly. 

“ — before that dynamite goes off !” 

It was at that exact moment that the dynamite went 

off. _ 

Crockett, however, did not know it. He discov- 
ered, quite briefly, that he was flying. Then he was 
halted, with painful suddenness, by the roof. After that 
lie knew nothing at all, till he recovered to find a head 
regarding him steadfastly. 



It was not a comforting sort of head — not one at 
which you would instinctively clutch for companionship. 
It was, in fact, a singularly odd, if not actually revolt- 
ing, head. Crockett was too much engrossed with star- 
ing at it to realize that he was actually seeing in the 
dark. 

ITow long had he been unconscious? For some ob- 
scure reason Crockett felt that it had been quite a while. 
The explosion had — what? 

Buried him here behind a fallen roof of rock?\Crock- 
ett would have felt little better had lie known that he 
was in a used-up shaft, valueless now, which had been 
abandoned long since. The miners, blasting to open a 
new shaft, had realized that the old one would be col- 
lapsed, but that didn’t matter. 

Except to Tim Crockett. 

He blinked, and when he reopened his eyes, the head 
had vanished. This was a relief. Crockett immedi- 
ately decided the unpleasant thing had been a delusion. 
Indeed, it was difficult to remember what it had looked 
like. There was only a vague impression of a turnip- 
shaped outline, large luminous eyes, and an . incredibly 
broad slit of a mouth. 

Crockett sat up, groaning. Where was this curious 
silvery radiance coming from? It was like daylight on 
a foggy afternoon, coming from nowhere in particular, 
and throwing no shadows. “Radium,” thought Crock- 
ett, who knew very little of mineralogy. 

He was in a shaft that stretched ahead into dimness 
till it made a sharp turn perhaps fifty feet away. Behind 
him — behind him the roof had fallen. Instantly Crockett 
began to experience difficulty in breathing. He flung 
himself upon the rubbly mound, tossing rocks frantically 
here and there, gasping and making hoarse, inarticulate 
noises. 

He became aware, presently, of his hands. His move- 
ments slowed till he remained perfectly motionless, in a 
half-crouching posture, glaring at the large, knobbly, 
and surprising objects that grew from his wrists. 'Could 
he, during his period of unconsciousness, have acquired 
mittens ? Even as the thought came to him, Crockett 
realized that no mittens ever knitted resembled in the 
slightest degree what he had a right to believe to be 
his hands. They twitched slightly. 

Possibly they were caked with mud — no. It wasn’t 
that. His hands had — altered. They were huge, 

gnarled, brown objects, like knotted oak roots. Sparse 
black hairs sprouted on their backs. The nails were 
definitely in need of a manicure — preferably with a 
chisel. 

Crockett looked down at himself. He made soft 
cheeping noises, indicative of disbelief. He had squat 
bow legs, thick and strong, and no more than two feet 
ong — less, if anything. Uncertain with disbelief, Crock- 
ett explored his body. It had changed — certainly not 
for the better. 

He was slightly more than four feet high,, and about 
three feet wide, with a barrel chest, enormous splay feet, 
stubby thick legs, and' no neck whatsoever. He was 



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110 UNKNOWN WORLDS 



wearing red sandals, blue shorts, and a red tunic which 
left his lean but sinewy arms bare. His head — 

Turnip-shaped. The mouth — Yipe! Crockett had 
inadvertently put his fist clear into it. He withdrew 
the offending hand instantly, stared around in a dazed, 
fashion, and collapsed on the ground. It couldn’t be 
happening. It was quite impossible. Hallucinations. 
He was dying of asphyxiation, and delusions were pre- 
ceding his death. 

Crockett shut his eyes, again convinced that his 
lungs were laboring for breath. “I'm dying,” he said. 
”1 c-can’t breathe.” 

. A contemptuous voice said, “I hope you don’t think 
you’re breathing air!” 

“I’m n-not — ” Crockett didn’t finish the sentence. 
His eyes popped open. He was hearing things — 

He heard it again. “You’re a singularly lousy speci- 
men of gnome,” the voice said, rather hoarsely, as 
though it had a cold. “But under Nid’s law we can’t 
pick and choose. Still, you won’t be put to digging 
hard metals, I ,can see that. Anthracite’s about your 
speed. What’re you staring at? You’re very much 
uglier than I am.” 

Crockett, endeavoring to lick his dry lips, was horri- 
fied to discover the end of his moist tongue dragging 
limply over his eyes. He whipped it back, with a loud 
smacking noise, and managed to sit up. Then he re- 
mained perfectly motionless, staring. 

The head had reappeared. This time there was a 
body under it. 

“I’m Gru Magru,” said the head chattily. “You’ll 
be given a gnomic name, of course, unless your own is 
guttural enough. What is it?” 

“Crockett,” the man responded, in a stunned, auto- 
matic manner. 

“Hey?” 

“Crockett.” _ ’ 

“Stop making noises .like a frog and — oh, I see. 
Grockett. Fair enough.' Now get up and follow me 
or I’ll kick the pants off you.” - 

But Crockett did not immediately rise. He was 
watching Gru Magru — obviously a gnome. Short, 
squat, and stunted, the being’s figure resembled a bulg- 
ing little barrel, topped by an inverted turnip. The hair 
grew up thickly to a peak — the root, as it were. In the 
turnip face was a loose, immense slit of a mouth, a but-, 
ton of a nose, and two very large eyes. 

“Get .up! 9 * Gru Magru said. 

This time Crockett obeyed, but the effort; exhausted 
him completely. If he moved again, he thought, he 
would go mad. It would be just as well. Gnomes— 

Gru Magru planted a large splay foot where it would 
do the most good, and Crockett described an arc which 
ended at a jagged boulder fallen from the roof. “Get 
up,” the gnome said, with gratuitous bad temper, “or 
I’ll kick you again. It’s bad enough to have an out- 
lying prospect patrol, where I might run into a man any 
time, without — Up! Or — ” 



Crockett got up. Gru Magru took his arm and im- 
pelled him . into the depths of the tunnel. 

7 “Well, you’re a gnome now,” he said. “It’s the Nid 
law. Sometimes I wonder if. it’s worth the trouble. 
But I suppose it is — since gnomes can’t propagate, and 
the average population has to be kept up somehow.” 

“I want to die,” Crockett said wildly. 

Gru Magru laughed. “Gnomes can't die. They’re 
immortal, till the Day. Judgment Day, I mean.” 
“You’re not logical;” Crockett pointed out, as though 
by disproving one factor he could automatically dis- 
prove the whole fantastic business. “You’re either flesh 
and blood and have to die eventually, or you’re not, and 
then you’re not real.” * 

“Oh, we’re flesh and blood, . right enough,” Gru 
Magru said. “But we’re not mortal. There’s a distinc- 
tion. Not that I’ve anything against some mortals,” he 
hastened to explain. “Bats, now— and owls — they’re 
fine. But men!” He shuddered. “No gnome can 
stand the sight of a man.” 

Crockett clutchedat a straw. “I’m a man.” 

“You were, you mean,” Gru said. “Not a very good, 
specimen, either, for my ore. But you’re a gnome now. 
It’s the Nid law.” 

“You keep talking about the Nid law,” Crockett com- 
plained. 

“Of course you don’t understand,” said Gru Magru, 
in a patronizing fashion. “It’s this way. Back in an- 
cient times, it was decreed that if any humans got lost in 
underearth, a tithe of them would be transformed into 
gnomes. The first gnome emperor, Podrang the Third, 
arranged that. He saw that fairies could kidnap human 
children and keep them, and spoke to the authorities 
about it. Said it was unfair. So when miners and such- 
like are lost underearth, a tithe of them are transformed 
into gnomes and join us. That’s what happened to you. 
See?” 

“No,” Crockett said weakly. “Look. You said 
Podrang was the first gnome emperor. Why was he 
called Podrang the Third?”. . 

“No time for questions,” Gru Magru snapped. 
“Hurry!” 

-He was almost running now, dragging the wretched 
Crockett after him. . The new gnome had not yet mas- 
tered his rather unusual limbs, and, due to the extreme 
wideness of his sandals, he was continually stepping on 
his own feet. Once.he trod heavily on his right hand, 
but after that learned to keep his arms bent and close to 
his sides. The walls, illuminated with that queer sil- 
very radiance, spun past dizzily. 

“W-what’s that light?” Crockett managed to gasp, 
“Where’s it coming from?” N 

“Light?” Gru Magru inquired. “It isn’t light.” 
“Well, it isn’t dark--” 

“Of course it’s dark,” the gnome snapped, “How 
could we see if it wasn’t dark?” . 

There was no possible answer to this, except, Crockett 
thought wildly, a frantic shriek. And he needed all his 
breath for running. They were in a labyrinth now, 
turning and twisting and doubling through innumer- 



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able tunnels, and Crockett knew he could never retrace 
his steps. He regretted having left the scene of the 
cave-in. But how could he have helped doing so? 

“Hurry!” Gru Magru urged. “Hurry!” „ 

“Why?” Crockett got out breathlessly. 

“There’s a fight going on !” the gnome said. 

Just ^hen they rounded a corner and almost blun- 
dered into the fight. A seething mass of gnomes filled 
the tunnel, battling with frantic fury. Red and blue 
pants and - tunics moved in s.wift patchwork frenzy; 
turnip heads popped up and down vigorously/ It was 
apparently a free-for-all. 

“See!” Gru gloated. “A fight! I could smell it six 
tunnels away. Oh, a beauty!” He ducked as a mali- 
cious-looking little gnome sprang out of the huddle to 
seize a rock and hurl it with vicious accuracy. The 
missile missed its mark, and Gru, neglecting his captive, 
immediately hurled himself upon the little gnome, bore 
him down on the cave floor, and began to beat his head 
against it. Both parties shrieked at the tops of their 
voices, which were lost in the deafening din that re- 
sounded through the tunnel. 

“Oh — my,” Crockett said weakly. He stood staring, 
which was a mistake. A very large gnome emerged 
from the pile, seized Crockett by the feet, and threw 
him away. The terrified inadvertent projectile sailed 
through the tunnel to crash heavily into something 



which said, “Whoo-oof!” There was a tangle of mal- 
formed arms and legs. 

Crockett arose to find that he had downed a vicious- 
looking gnome with flaming red hair and four large dia- 
mond buttons on his tunic. This repulsive creature lay 
motionless, out for the count. Crockett took stock of 
his injuries — there were none. His new body was 
hardy, anyway. 

“You saved me!” said a new voice. It belonged to a 
— a lady gnome. Crockett decided that if there was any- 
thing uglier than a gnome, it was the female of the spe- 
cies. The creature stood crouching just behind him, 
clutching a large rock in one capable hand. 

Crockett ducked. 

“I ,won’t hurt you,” the other howled above the din 
that filled the passage, “You saved me! Mugza was 
trying to pull my ears off — oh! He’s waking up!” 

The red-haired gnome was indeed recovering con- 
sciousness. His first act was to draw up his feet and, 
without rising, kick Crockett dear across the tunnel. 
The feminine gnome immediately sat on Mugza ’s chest 
and pounded his head with the rock till he subsided. 

Then she arose. “You’re not hurt? Good! .I’m 
Brockle Buhn ... oh, look! He’ll have his head off 
in a minute!” 

Crockett turned to see that his erstwhile guide, Gru 
Magru, was gnomefully tugging at the head of an 




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unidentified opponent, attempting, apparently, to twist it 
clear off. “What’s it all about?” Crockett howled. “Uh 
. . . Brockle Buhn! Brockle Buhn!” 

She turned unwillingly. “What?” 

“The fight! What started it?” 

“I did,” she explained. “I said, 'Let’s have a fight/ ” 

' “Oh — that was all?” • 

“Then we started,” Brockle Buhn nodded. “What’s 
your name ?” . 

“Crockett.” • 

“You’re new here, aren’t you? Oh— I know! You 
were a human !” Suddenly a new light appeared in 
her bulging eyes. “Grockett, maybe you can tell me 
something. What’s a kiss?” 

“A — kiss?” Crockett repeated, in a baffled manner. 
“Yes. I was listening inside a knoll once, and heard 
two humans talking — male and female, by their voices. 

I didn’t dare look at them, of course, but the man asked 
the woman for a kiss.” 

“Oh/” Crockett said, rather blankly. “He asked for 
a kiss, eh ?” 

“And then there was a smacking noise and the woman 
said it was wonderful. I wondered ever since. Because 
if any gnome asked me for a kiss, I wouldn’t know 
what he meant.” 

“Gnomes don’t kiss ?” Crockett asked in a perfunctory 
way. ' 

“Gnomes dig,” said Brockle Buhn. “And we eat. 

I like to eat. Is a kiss like mud soup?” 

“Well, not exactly.” Somehow Crockett managed 
to explain the mechanics of osculation. 

The gnome remained silent, pondering deeply. At 
last she said, with the air of one bestowing mud soup 
upon a hungry applicant, “I’ll give you a kiss.” 

Crockett had a nightmare picture of his whole head 
being engulfed in that enormous maw. He backed 
away. “N-no,” he got out. “I . . . I’d rather not.” 
“Then let’s fight,” said Brockle Buhn, without ran- 
cor, and swung a knotted fist which smacked painfully 
athwart Crockett’s ear. “Oh, no,” she said regretfully, 
turning away. “The fight’s over. It wasn’t very long, 
was it?” . 

Crockett, rubbing his mangled ear, saw that in every 
direction gnomes were picking themselves up and hur- 
rying off about their business. They seemed to have for- 
gotten all about the recent conflict. The* tunnel was 
once more silent, save for the pad-padding of gnomes’ 
feet on the rock. Gru Magru carhe over, grinning hap- 
pily. 

“Hello, Brockle Buhn,” he greeted. “A good fight. 
Who’s this ?” He looked down at the. prostrate body of 
Mugza, the red-haired gnome. 

“Mugza,” said Brockle Buhn. “He’s still out. Let’s 
kick him.” 

" They proceeded to do it with vast enthusiasm, while 
Crockett watched and decided never to allow himself to 
be knocked unconscious. It definitely wasn’t safe. At 
last, however, Gru Magru tired of the sport and took 
Crockett by the arm again. “Come along.” he said, and 

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they sauntered along the tunnel, leaving Brockle Buhn 
jumping up and down on the senseless Mugza’s stom- 
ach. 

“You don’t seem to mind hitting people when they’re 
knocked out,” Crockett hazarded. 

“It’s much more fun,” Gru said happily. “That way 
you can tell just where you want to hit ’em. Come 
along. You’ll have to be inducted. Another day, an- 
other gnome. Keeps the population stable,” he ex- 
plained, and fell to humming a little song. 

“Look,” Crockett said. “I just thought of some- 
thing. You say humans are turned into gnomes to keep 
the population stable. But if gnomes don’t die, doesn’t 
that mean that there are more gnomes now than ever? 
The population keeps rising, doesn’t it ?” 

“Be still,” Gru Magru commanded. “I’m singing.” 

It was a singularly tuneless song. Crockett, his 
thoughts veering madly, wondered if the gnomes had a 
national anthem. Probably “Rock Me to Sleep.” Oh, 
well. 

“We’re going to see the emperor,” Gru said at last. 
“He always sees the new gnomes. You’d better make 
a good impression, or he’ll put you to placer-mining 
lava.!’ 

“Uh — ” Crockett glanced down at his grimy tunic. 
“Hadn’t I better clean up a bit? That fight made me a 
mess.” 

“It wasn’t the fight,” Gru said insultingly. “What’s 
wrong with you, anyway ? I don’t see anything amiss.” 

“My clothes— they’re dirty.” 

“Don’t worry about that,” said the other. “It’s good 
filthy dirt, isn’t it? Here!” He halted, and, stooping, 
seized a handful of dust which he rubbed into Crockett’s 
face and hair. “That’ll fix you up.” 

“I . . . pjpfi! . . . thanks . . . pffh !” said the newest 
gnome. “I hope I’m dreaming. Because if I’m not — ” 
He didn’t finish. Crockett was feeling most unwell. 

They went through a labyrinth, far under Dornsef 
Mountain, and emerged at last in a bare, huge chamber 
with a throne of rock at one end of it. A small gnome 
was sitting on the throne paring his toenails. “Bottom 
of the day to you,” Gru said. “Where’s the emperor?” 

/'Taking a bath,” said the other. “I hope he drowns. 
Mud, mud, mud, morning noon and night. First it’s 
too hot. Then it’s too cold. Then it’s too thick. I 
work my fingers to the bone mixing his mud baths, and 
all I get is a kick,” the small gnome continued plain- 
tively. “There’s such a thing as being to0;dirty. Three 
mud baths a day — that’s carrying it too far. And never 
a thought for me ! Oh, no. I’m a mud puppy, that’s 
what I am. He called me that today. Said there were 
lumps in'the mud. Well, why not ? That damned loam 
we’ve been getting is enough to turn a worm’s stom- 
ach. You’ll find His Majesty in there,” the little gnome 
finished, jerking his foot toward an archway in the 
wall. 

Crockett was dragged into the next room, where, in 
a sunken bath filled with steaming, brown mud, a very 
fat gnome sat; only his eyes discernible through the 

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oozy coating that covered him. He was filling his 
hands with mud and letting it drip over his head, chuck- 
ling in a senile sort of way as he did so. 

“Mud,” he remarked pleasantly to Gru Magru, in a 
voice like a lion's bellow. “Nothing like it. Good rich 
mud. Ah!” 

Gru was bumping his head on the floor, his large, ca- 
pable hand around Crockett's neck forcing the other 
to follow suit. 

“Oh, get up,” said the emperor. “What's this? 
y/hat's this gnome been up to? Out with it.” 

“He's new,” Gru explained. “I found him topside. - 
The Nid law, you know.” 

“Yes, of course. Let's have a look at you. Ugh! 
I'm Podrang the Second, Emperor of the Gnomes. 
What have you to say to that?” 

All Crockett could think of was : “How . . . how can 
you be Podrang the Second? I thought Podrang ‘the 
Third was the first emperor ?” 

“A chatterbox,” said Podrang II, disappearing be- 
neath the surface of the mud and spouting as he rose 
again. “Take care of him, Gru. Easy work at first. 
Digging anthracite. Mind you don't eat any while 
you're on the job,” he cautioned the dazed Crockett. 
“After you’ve been here a century, you're allowed one 
mud bath a day. Nothing like 'em,” he added, bringing 
up a gluey handful to smear over his face. 

Abruptly he stiffened. His lion's bellow rang out. 
“Drook t Drook!” 

The little gnome Crockett had seen in the throne 
room scurried in, ringing his hands. “Your majesty! 
Isn't the' mud warm enough?” 

“You crawling blob!” roared Podrang II. “You 
slobbering offspring of six thousand individual offen- 
sive stenches! You mica-eyed, incompetent, draggle- 
eared, writhing blot on the good name of gnomes ! You 
geological mistake ! You . . . you — ” 

Drook took advantage of his master's temporary in- 
articulacy. “It’s the best mud, your majesty ! I refined 
it myself. Oh, your majesty, what’s wrong?” 

“There's a worm in it!” His Majesty bellowed, and 
launched into a stream of profanity so horrendous that 
it practically made the mud boil. Clutching his singed 
ears, Crockett allowed Gru Magru to drag him away. 

“I'd like to get the old boy in a fight,” Gru remarked, 
when they were safely in the depths of a tunnel, “but 
he'd use magic, of course. That’s the way he is. Best 
emperor we’ve ever had. Not a scrap of fair play in his 
bloated body.” 

“Oh,” Crockett said blankly. “Well, what next?” 
“You heard Podrang, didn't you? You dig anthra- 
cite. And if you eat any, I'll kick your teeth in.” 

t 

Brooding over the apparent tad tempers of gnomes, 
Crockett allowed himself to be conducted to a gallery 
where dozens of gnomes, both male and female, were 
using picks and mattocks with furious vigor. “This is 
it,” Gru said. “Now ! You dig anthracite. You work 
twenty hours, and then sleep six.” 

“Then what?” 



“Then you start digging again,” Gru explained. “You 
have a brief rest once every ten hours. You mustn't 
stop digging in between, unless it's for a fight. Now 
here's the way you locate coal. Just think of it.” 

“Eh?” 

“How do you think I found you?” Gru asked impa- 
tiently. “Gnomes have — certain senses. There's a 
legend that fairy folk can locate water by using a forked 
stick. Well, we're attracted to metals. Think of an- 
thracite,” he finished, and Crockett obeyed. Instantly 
he found himself turning to the wall of the tunnel near- 
est him. - 

“See how il works?” Gru grinned. “It's a natural 
evolution, I suppose. Functional* We have to know 
where the underearth deposits are, so the authorities 
gave us this sense when we were created. Think of 
ore— or any deposit in the ground — and you'll be at- 
tracted to it. Just as there's a repulsion in all gnomes 
against daylight.” 

“Eh?” Crockett started slightly. “What was that?” 

“Negative and positive. We need ores, so we're at- 
tracted to them. Daylight is harmful to us, so if we 
think we're getting too close to the surface, we think of 
light, and it repels us. Try it!” 

Crockett obeyed. Something seemed to be pressing 
down the top of his head — 

“Straight up,” Gru nodded. “But it's a long way. 
I saw daylight once. And — a man, too.” He stared at 
the other. “I forgot to explain. Gnomes can't stand 
the sight of human beings. They — well, there's a limit 
to how much ugliness a gnome can look at. Now you’re 
one of us; you’ll feel the same way. Keep away from 
daylight, and never look at a man. It’s as much as your 
sanity is worth.” 

There was a thought stirring in Crockett's mind. He 
could, then, find his way out of this maze of tunnels, 
simply by employing his new sense to lead him to day- 
light. After that — well, at least he would be above 
ground. 

Gru Magru shoved Crockett into a place between two 
busy gnomes and thrust a pick into his hands. “There. 
Get to work.” 

“Thanks for — ” Crockett began, when Gru suddenly 
kicked him and then took his departure, humming hap- 
pily to himself. Another gnome came up, saw Crockett 
standing motionless, and told him to get busy, accom- 
panying the command with a blow on his already tender 
ear. Perforce Crockett seized the pick and began to 
chop anthracite out of the wall. 

“Grockett!” said a familiar voice. “It's you! I 
thought they'd send you here.” 

It was Brockle Buhn, the feminine gnome Crockett 
had already encountered. She was swinging a pick with 
the others, but dropped it now to grin at her com- 
panion. 

“You won't be here long,” she consoled. “Ten years 
or so. Unless you run into trouble, and then you’ll be 
put at really hard work.” ^ 



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Crockett’s arms were already aching. "Hard work! 
My arms are going to fall off in a minute.” 

He leaned on his pick. “Is this your regular job?” 
“Yes— but I’m seldom-here. Usually I’m being pun- 
ished. I’m a trouble-maker, I am. I eat anthracite.” 
She demonstrated, and Crockett shuddered at the 
audible crunching sound.. Just then the overseer came 
up. Brockle Buhn swallowed hastily. 

“What’s this?” he snarled. “Why aren’t you at 
work?” > 

“We were just going to fight,” Brockle Buhn ex- 
plained. 0 

“Oh — just tfte two of you? Or can I join in?” 
“Free for all,” the unladylike gnome offered, and 



struck the unsuspecting Crockett over the head with 
her pick. He went out like a light. 

Awakening some time later, he investigated bruised 
ribs and decided Brockle Buhn must have kicked him 
after he’d lost consciousness. What a gnome ! Crockett 
sat up, finding himself in the same tunnel, dozens of 
gnomes busily digging anthracite. 

The overseer came toward him. “Awake, eh ? Get 
to work !” 

Daziedly Crockett obeyed. Brockle Buhn flashed him 
a delighted grin. “You missed it. I got an ear — see?” 
She exhibited it. Crockett hastily lifted an exploring 
hand. It wasn’t his. 

Dig — dig — dig — the hours dragged past. Crockett 



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had never worked so hard in his life. But, he noticed, 
not a gnome complained. Twenty hours of toil, with 
one brief rest period — he’d slept through that. Dig — 
dig— dig— 

Without ceasing her work, Brockle Buhn said, “I 
think you’ll make a good gnome, Grockett. You’re 
toughening up already. Nobody ’d ever believe you 
were once a man.” 

“Oh — no?” 

“No: What were you — a miner?” 

“I was — ” Crockett paused suddenly. A curious 
light came into his eyes. 

“I was a labor organizer,” he finished. 

“What’s that?” 4 

“Ever heard of a union?” Crockett asked, his gaze 
intent. 

“Is it an ore ?” Brockle Buhn shook her head. “No, 
I’ve never heard of it. What’s a union?” 

Crockett explained. No genuine labor organizer 
would have accepted that explanation. It was, to say 
the least, biased. 

Brockle Buhn seemed puzzled. “I don’t see what 
you mean, exactly, but I suppose it’s all right.” 

“Try another tack,” Crockett said. “Don’t you ever 
get tired of working twenty hours i a day ?” 

“Sure. Who wouldn’t?” 

“Then why do it?” 

“We always have,” Brockle Buhn said indulgently. 
“We can’t stop.” 

“Suppose you did?” 

“I’d be punished — beaten with stalactites, or some- 
thing.” 

“Suppose you all did,” Crockett insisted. “Every 
damn gnome. Suppose you had a sit-down strike.” 
“You’re crazy,” Brockle Buhn said. “Such a thing’s 
never happened. It . . . it’s human.” 

“Kisses never happened underground, either,” said 
Crockett. “No, I don’t want one! And I don’t want 
to fight, either. Good heavens — let me get the set-up 
here. Most of the gnomes work to support the privi- 
leged classes.” 

“No. We just work.” 

“But why?” 

“We always have. And the emperor wants us to.” 
“Has the emperor ever worked ?” Crockett demanded, 
with an air of triumph. “No! He just takes mud 
baths! Why shouldn’t every gnome have the same 
privilege? Why — ” 

He talked on, at great length, as he worked. Brockle 
Buhn listened with increasing interest. And eventually 
she swallowed the bait, hook, line and sinker. 

An hour later she was nodding agreeably. “I’ll pass 
the word along. Tonight. In the Roaring Cave. Right 
after work.” 

“Wait a minute,” Crockett objected. “How many 
gnomes can you get?” 

“Well — not very many. Thirty?” 

“We’ll have to organize first. We’ll need a definite 
plan — ” 



Brockle Buhn went off at a tangent. “Let’s fight.” 
“No! Will you listen? We need a ... a council. 
Who’s the worst trouble-maker here?” 

“Mugza, I think,” she said. “The red-haired gnome 
you knocked out when he hit me.” 

Crockett frowned slightly. Would Mugza hold a 
grudge ? Probably not, he decided. Or, rather, he’d be 
no more ill-tempered than other gnomes. Mugza might 
attempt to throttle Crockett on sight, but he’d no doubt 
do the same to any other gnome. Besides, as Brockle 
Buhn went on to explain, Mugza was the gnomic equiv- 
alent of a duke. His support would be valuable. 

“And Gru Magru,” she suggested. “He loves new 
things, especially if they make trouble.” 

“Yeah — ” These were not the two Crockett would 
have chosen, but at least he could think of no other 
candidates. “If we could get somebody who’s close to 
the emperor . . . what about Drook ? The guy who gives 
Podrang his mud baths?” 

“Why not? I’ll fix it.” Brockle Buhn lost interest 
and surreptitiously began to eat anthracite. Since the 
overseer was watching, this resulted in a violent quarrel, 
from which Crockett emerged with a black eye. Whis- 
pering profanity under his breath, he went back to dig- 
ging. 

But he had time for a few more words with Brockle 
Buhn. She’d arrange it. That night there would be a 
secret meeting of the conspirators. 

Crockett had been looking forward to exhausted 
slumber, but this chance was too good to miss. He had no 
wish to continue his unpleasant job digging anthracite. 
His body ached fearfully. Besides, if he could induce 
the gnomes to strike, he might be able to put the squeeze 
on Podrang II. Gru Magru had said the emperor was 
a magician. Couldn’t he, then, transform Crockett back 
into a: man ? 

“He’s never done that,” Brockle Buhn said, and 
Crockett realized he had spoken his thought aloud. 
“Couldn’t he, though — if he wanted ?” 

Brockle Buhn merely shuddered, but Crockett had a 
little gleam of hope. To be human again ! 

Dig — dig — dig — with monotonous, - deadening regu- 
larity. Crockett sank into a stupor. Unless he got the 
gnomes to strike, he was faced with an eternity of ardu- 
ous toil. He was scarcely conscious of knocking off, of 
feeling Brockle Buhn’s gnarled hand under his arm, of 
being led through passages to a tiny cubicle which was 
his new home. The gnome left him there, and he 
crawled into a stony bunk and went to sleep. 

Presently a casual kick roused him. Blinking, Crock- 
ett sat up, instinctively dodging the blow Gru Magru 
was aiming at his head. He had four guests — Gru, 
Brockle Buhn, Drook, and the red-haired Mugza. 

“Sorry I woke up too soon,” Crockett said bitterly. 
“If I hadn’t, you could have got in another kick.” 
“There’s lots of time,” Gru said. “Now what’s this 
all about? I wanted to sleep, but Brockle Buhn here 
said there was going to be a fight. A big one — huh?” 



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"Eat first/' Brockle Buhn said firmly. "I’ll fix mud 
soup for everybody.” She bustled away, and presently 
was busy in a corner, preparing refreshments. The 
other gnomes squatted on their haunches, and Crockett 
sat on the edge of his bunk, still dazed with sleep. 

But he managed to explain his idea of the union. It 
was received with interest- — chiefly, he felt, because it 
involved the possibility of a tremendous scrap. 

"You mean every Dornsef gnome jumps the em- 
peror?” Gru asked. 

"No, no! Peaceful arbitration.' We just refuse to 
work. All of us.” 

"/ can't,” Drook said. "Podrang's got to have his 
mud baths, the bloated old slug. He'd send me to the 
fumaroles till I was toasted.” 

"Who'd take you there?” Crockett asked. 

"Oh — the guards, I suppose.” k 

"But they'd be on strike, too. Nobody’d obey Pod- 
rang, till he gave in.” 

"Then he'd enchant me,” Drook said. 

"He can't enchant us all,” Crockett countered. 

"But he could enchant me” Drook . said with great 
firmness. _ "Besides, he could put a spell on every gnome 
in Dornsef. Turn us into stalactites or something.” 
"Then what? He wouldn't have any gnomes at all. 
Half a loaf is better than none. We'll just use logic on 
him. Wouldn't he rather, have a little less work done 
thap none at all?” 

"Not him,” Gru put in. "He’d rather enchant us.‘ 
Oh, he's a bad one, he is,” the gnome finished approv- 
ingly. 

* 

Bur Crockett couldn't quite 'believe this. It was ■ 
too alien to his understanding of psychology — human 
psychology, of course. He turned to Mugza, .who was 
glowering furiously. 

"What do you think about it ?” 

"I want to fight,” the other said rancorously. "I 
want to kick somebody.” 

‘Wouldn't you rather have mud baths three times a 
day?” - 

Mugza grunted, "Sure. v But the emperor won't let 
me.” 

"Why not?” ' 

"Because I want 'em,” 

"You can't be contented,” Crockett said desperately. 
"There's more to life than . . . than digging.” 

"Sure. There’s fighting.. Podrang lets us fight when- 
ever we want,” 

Crockett had a sudden -inspiration. "But that's just 
it. He’s going to stop all fighting ! He's going to pass 
a new law forbidding fighting except to himself.” 

It was an effective shot in the dark. Every gnome 
jumped. 

"Stop — fighting!” That was Gru, angry and disbe- 
lieving. "Why, we've always fought.” 

"Well, you'll have to stop,” Crockett insisted. 
‘Won't!” 

"Exactly! 1 Why should you? Every gnome’s en- 
titled to life, liberty and the pursuit of ... of pugilism,” 



"Let's go and beat up Podrang,” Mugza offered, 
accepting a steaming bowl of mud soup from Brockle 
Buhn. 

. "No, that's not the way . . . no, thanks, Brockle Buhn 
... not the way at all. A strike's the thing. Well 
peaceably force Podrang to give us what we want.” 

He turned to Drook. "Just what can Podrang do 
about it if we all sit down and refuse to work?” 

The little gnome considered. "He'd swear. And 
kick me.” 

"Yeah — and then what?” 

"Then he’d go off and enchant everybody, tunnel by 
tunnel.”' 

"Uh-huh,” Crpckett nodded. "A good point. Soli- 
darity is what we need. If Podrang finds a few gnomes 
together, he can scare the hell out of them. But if we’re 
all together — that's it ! When the strike's called, well 
all meet in the biggest cave in the joint.” • 

"That's the Council Chamber,” Gru said. "Next ,to 
Podrang's throne room.” 

"O. K. Well meet there. How many gnomes will 
join us?” 

“All of ’em,” Mugza grunted, throwing his soup bowl 
at Drook’s head. "The emperor can't stop us fighting,” 
- "And what weapons can Podrang use, Drook?” 

"He might use the Cockatrice. Eggs,” the other said 
doubtfully. 

"What are those?/ 

"They're not really eggs,” Gru broke in. . "They’re 
magic jewels for wholesale enchantments. Different 
spells in each one. The green ones, I think, are for 
turning people into earthworms, Podrang just breaks 
one, and the spell spreads out for twenty feet or so. The 
red ones are — let’s see. Transforming gnomes into 
humans — though that!s a bit too tough. No . . . yes. 
The blue ones — ” 

"Into humans!” Crockett's eyes widened. "Where 
are the eggs kept ?” 

"Let’s fight,” Mugza offered, and hurled himself 
bodily on Drook, who squeaked frantically and beat his 
attacker over the head with his stone soup bowl, which 
broke. Brockle Buhn added to the excitement by kick- 
ing both battlers impartially, till felled by Gru Magru. 
Within a few moments the room resounded with the 
excited screams of gnomic battle. Inevitably Crockett 
was sucked in — 

Of all the perverted, incredible forms of life that had 
ever existed, gnomes were about the oddest. It was 
impossible to understand their philosophy. Their minds 
worked along different paths from human intelligences. 
Self-preservation and survival of the race — these two 
vital human instincts were lacking in gnomes. They 
neither died nor propagated. They just worked and 
fought. Bad-tempered little monsters, Crockett thought 
irritably. .Yet they had existed for — ages.. Since the 
beginning, maybe. Their social organism was the result 
of evolution far older than man’s. It might be well 
suited to gnomes. Crockett might, be throwing an un- 
necessary monkey wrench in the machinery, 
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So what ? He wasn’t going to spend eternity digging 
anthracite, even though, in retrospect, he remembered 
feeling a curious thrill of obscure pleasure as he worked. 
Digging might be fun for gnomes. Certainly it was 
their raison d'etre. In time Crockett himself might lose 
his human affiliations, and be metamorphosed completely 
into a gnome. What had happened to other humans 
who had undergone such an — alteration — as he had 
done? All gnomes looked alike. But maybe Gru 
Magru had once been human — or Drook — or Brockle 
Buhn. 

They were gnomes now, at any rate, thinking and 
existing completely as gnomes. And in time he himself 
would be exactly like them. Already he had acquired 
the strange tropism that attracted him to metals and 
repelled him from daylight. But he didn’t like to dig! 

He tried to recall the little he knew about gnomes : — 
miners, metalsmiths, living underground. There was 
something about the Piets — dwarfish men who hid un- 
derground when invaders came to England, centuries 
ago. That seemed to tie in vaguely with the gnomes’ 
dread of human beings^ But the gnomes themselves 
were certainly not descended from Piets. Very likely 
the two separate races and species had become identified 
through occupying the same habitat. 

Well, that was no help. What about the emperor? 
He wasn’t, apparently, a gnome with a high I. Q., but 
he was a magician. Those jewels — Cockatrice Eggs — 
were significant. If he could get hold of the ones that 
transformed gnomes into men — 

But obviously he couldn’t, at present.. Better wait. 
Till the strike had been called. The — strike — 

Crockett went to sleep. 

He was roused — painfully — by Brockle Buhn, who 
seemed to have adopted him. Very likely it was her 
curiosity about the matter of a kiss. From time to time 
she offered to give Crockett one, but he steadfastly 
refused. In lieu of it, she supplied him with breakfast. 
At least, he thought grimly, he'd get plenty of iron in 
his system, even though the rusty chips rather resem- 
bled corn flakes. As a special inducement Brockle 
Buhn sprinkled coal dust over the mess. 

Well, no doubt his digestive system had also altered. 
Crockett wished he could get an X-ray picture of his 
insides. Then he decided it would be much too disturb- 
ing. Better not to know. But he could not help won- 
dering. Gears in his stomach? Small millstones? 
What would happen if he inadvertently swallowed some 
emery dust? Maybe he could sabotage the emperor 
that way. 

Perceiving that his thoughts were beginning to veer 
wildly, Crockett gulped the last of his meal and followed 
Brockle Buhn to the anthracite tunnel. 

“How about the strike? How’s it coming?” 

“Fine, Grockett,” she smiled, and Crockett winced at 
the sight. “Tonight all the gnomes will meet in the 
Roaring Cave. Just after work.” 





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There was no time for more conversation. The 
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picks. Dig — dig — dig. It kept up at the same pace. 
Crockett- sweated and toiled. It wouldn’t, be for. long. 
His mind slipped a cog, so that he relapsed into a.wak-, 
ing slumber, his muscles responding automatically to 
the need. Dig, dig, dig. Sometimes a fight. Once a 
x rest period. Then dig again. . 

Five centuries later the day ended. It was time to 
sleep. •' * . ' , ‘ T . 

But there was. something much more important. The 
union meeting in the Roaring Cave. Brockle Buhn 
conducted Crockett there, a huge cavern hung with glit- 
tering green stalactites. Gnomes came pouring into it. 
Gnomes and more gnomes. * The turnip heads were 
everywhere. A dozen fights started. Gru Magru, 
Mugza, and Drook found places near Crockett. During 
a lull Brockle Buhn urged him to a platform of rock 
jutting from the floor. 

“Now/’ she whispered. “They all know about it. 
Tell them what ; you want.” . - 

Crockett was looking out over the bobbing heads, the 
red and blue garments, all lit' by. that eerie silver glow. 
“Fellow gnomes,” he began weakly. 

“Fellow gnomes!” The words roared out/ magni- 
fied by the acoustics of the cavern. That bull bellow' 
gave Crockett courage. He plunged on. 

“Why should you work twenty hours a day? Why 
should you be forbidden to eat the anthracite you dig? 
While Podrang squats in his bath' and laughs at you ! 
Fellow gnomes, * the emperor is only one — you are 
many ! He can’t make you work. How would you like 
mud soup three times a day ? *. The emperor can’t fight 
you all. If you refuse to work — all of you — he’ll have 
to give in! He’ll have to!” 

“Tell ’em about the nonfighting edict,” Gru Magru 
called. 

Crockett obeyed. That got ’em. Fighting was dear 
to every gnomic heart. And Crockett kept on talking. 

“Podrang will try to back down, you know. He’ll 
pretend he never intended to forbid, fighting. That’ll 
show he’s afraid of you! We hold the whip hand! 
We’ll strike — and the emperor can’t do a damn thing 
about it. When he runs out of mud for his baths, he’ll 
capitulate soon enough.” 

“He’ll enchant us all,” Drook muttered sadly. „ 

“He won’t dare! What good would that do?. He 
knows which side his . . . uh . . ; which side his mud is 
buttered on. Podrang is unfair to gnomes! That’s 
our watchword !” 

It ended, of course, in a bra^vl. But Crockett was 
satisfied. The gnomes would not go to work tomorrow. 
They would, instead, meet in the Council* Chamber, ad- 
joining Podrang’s throne room — and sit down. 

That night he slept well. 

In the morning Crockett went, with Brockle Buhn, 
to the Council Chamber, a cavern gigantic enough to 
hold the thousands of gnomes who thronged it. In the 
silver light their red and blue garments had a curiously 
elfin quality. Or, perhaps, naturally enough, Crockett 
thought. Were gnomes, strictly speaking, elves? . 



Drook came up. “I didn’t draw Podrang’s mud 
bath,” he confided hoarseiy. “Oh, but he’lTbe furious. 
Listen to him.” 

And, indeed, a distant crackling of profanity was com- 
ing through an archway in one wall of the cavern. 

Mugza and Gru Magru joined them. “He’ll be along 
directly,” the latter said. “What a fight there’ll be !” 

“Let’s fight now,” Mugza suggested,- “I want to 
kick somebody. Hard.” 

“There’s a gnome who’s asleep,” Crockett said. “If 
you sneak up on him, you- can land a good one right in 
his face,” 

Mugza, drooling slightly, departed on his errand, and 
simultaneously Podrang II, Emperor of the Dornsef 
Gnomes, stumped into the cavern. It was the first time 
Crockett had seen the ruler without a coating of mud, 
and he could not help gulping at the sight. Podrang 
was very ugly. . He combined in himself the most re- 
pulsive qualities of every gnome Crockett had previously 
seen. The result was perfectly indescribable. 

“Ah,” said Podrang, halting and swaying on his short 
bow legs. “I have guests. Drook t Where in the name 
of the nine steaming hells is my bath?” But Drook had 
ducked from sight. s . 

The emperor nodded. “I see. Well, I won’t lose my 
temper. 1 won't lose my temper! I WON’T — ” 

He paused as a stalactite, was dislodged from the roof 
and crashed down. In the momentary silence, Crockett 
stepped forward, cringing slightly. 

“W- we’re on strike,” he announced. “It’s a sit-down 
strike. We won’t work till — ” 

“ Yaaah !” screamed the infuriated emperor. “You 
won’t work, eh? Why, you boggle-eyed, flap-tongued, 
drag-bellied offspring of unmentionable algae! You 
seething little leprous blotch of bat-nibbled fungus! You 
cringing parasite on the underside of a dwarfish and 
ignoble worm! Yaaah!” 

“Fight!” the irrepressible Mugza yelled, and flung 
himself on Podrang, only to be felled by a^well-placed 
foul blow. 

Crockett’s throat felt dry. He raised his voice, Trying 
to keep it steady. . . - 

“Your majesty ! If you’ll just wait a minute — ” 

“You mushroom-nosed spawn of degenerate black 
bats,” the enraged emperor shrieked at the top of his 
voice. “I’ll enchant you all! I’ll turn you into naiads T 
Strike, will you! Stop me from having my mud bath, 
will you? By Kronos, Nid, Ymir, and Loki, you’ll have - 
_ cause to regret this!' Yaaah!” he finished, inarticulate 
with fury. 

“Quick!” Crockett whispered to Gru and Brockle 
Buhn. “Get between him and the door, so he can’t get 
hold of the Cockatrice Eggs.” 

“They’re not in the throne room,” Gru Magru ex- * 
plained unhelpfully. “Podrang just grabs them out of 
the air.” 

“Oh!” the harassed Crockett groaned. At that stra- 
tegic moment Brockle Buhn's worst instincts overcame 
her. With a loud shriek of delight she knocked Crock - 



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ett down, kicked him twice, and sprang for the em- 
peror. 

She got in one good blow before Podrang hammered 
her atop the head with one gnarled fist, and instantly 
her turnip-shaped skull seemed to prolapse into her 
torso. The emperor, a bright purple with fury, reached 
out — and a yellow crystal appeared in his hand. 

It was one of the Cockatrice Eggs. 

Bellowing like a musth elephant, Podrang hurled it. 
A circle of twenty feet was instantly cleared among the 
massed gnomes. But it wasn’t vacant. Dozens of bats 
rose and fluttered about, adding to the confusion. 

Confusion became chaos. With yells of delighted fury, 
the gnomes rolled forward toward their ruler. “Fight!” 
'the cry thundered out, reverberating from the roof. 
“Fight!” 

Podrang snatched another crystal from nothingness — 
a green one, this time. Thirty-seven gnomes were in- 
stantly transformed into earthworms, and were trampled. 
The emperor went down under an avalanche of at- 
tackers, who abruptly disappeared, turned into mice by 
another of the Cockatrice Eggs. 

Crockett saw one of the crystals sailing toward him, 
and ran like hell. He found a hiding-place behind a 
stalagmite, and from there watched the carnage. It was 
definitely a sight worth seeing, though it could not be 
recommended to a nervous man. 

j The Cockatrice Eggs exploded in an incessant stream, 
j Whenever that happened, the spell spread out for twenty 
feet or more before losing its efficacy. Those caught on 
the fringes of the circle were only partially transformed. 
Crockett saw one gnome with a mole’s head. Another 
was a worm from the waist down. Another was — ulp ! 
Some of the spell -patterns were not, apparently, drawn 
even from known mythology. 

The fury of noise that filled the cavern brought stalac- 
tites crashing down incessantly from the roof. Ever so 
often Podrang’s battered head would reappear, only to 
go down again as more gnomes sprang to the attack — to 
be enchanted. Mice, moles, bats, and other things filled 
the Council Chamber. Crockett shut his eyes and 
prayed. 

He opened them in time to see Podrang snatch a red 
crystal out of the air, pause, and -then deposit it gently 
behind him. A purple Cockatrice Egg came next. This 
crashed against the floor, and thirty gnomes turned into 
tree toads. 

Apparently only Podrang was immune to his own 
magic. The thousands who had filled the cavern were 
rapidly thinning, for the Cockatrice Eggs seemed to 
come from an inexhaustible source of supply. How 
long would it be before Crockett’s own turn came? He 
couldn’t hide here forever. 

His gaze riveted to the red crystal Podrang had so 
carefully put down. He was remembering something — 
the Cockatrice Egg that would transform gnomes into 
humans. Of course ! Podrang wouldn’t use that , since 
the very sight of men was so distressing to gnomes. 
If Crockett could get his hands on that red crystal— 




Imagine a place where there is constant daylight, where 
there is no night. The stars are unknown to the inhabitants 
of this planet — for without darkness, there can be no stars. 
And yet — once in every 2500 years, the stars do appear. 
With them they bring insane fear, madness, chaos. Find 
out why— and what happens — in NIGHTFALL, by Isaac 
Asinov, a grand novelette, in the September issue of 




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He tried it, sneaking through the confusion, sticking He could not reach it in time. Podrang was too close, 
close to the wall of the cavern, till he neared Podrang. A few more seconds, and those gnarled, terrible hands 
The emperor was swept away by another onrush of would close on Crockett’s throat. ‘ 

gnomes, who abruptly changed into dormice, and Crock- Then Crockett remembered the Cockatrice Egg, If 
ett got the red jewel. It felt abnormally cold,' he transformed himself into a man now, Podrang would 

He almost broke it at his feet before a thought stopped not dare touch him. And he was almost at the. tunnel’s 
and chilled him. He was far under Dornsef Mountain, mouth. 

in a labyrinth of caverns. No human could find his way He stopped, whirling, and lifted the jewel. Simul- 
out. But a gnome could, with the aid of his strange taneously the emperor, seeing his intention, reached out 
tropism to daylight. with both hands, and snatched six or seven of the crys- 

A bat flew against Crockett’s face. He was almost tals out of the air. He threw them directly at Crockett, 
certain it squeaked, “What a fight!” in a parody of a fusillade of rainbow colors.- 

Brockle Buhn’s voice, but he couldn’t be sure. He cast But Crockett'had already slammed the red gem down 
one glance over the cavern before turning to flee. on the rock at his feet. There was ah .ear-splitting 

crash. Jewels seemed to burst all around Crockett — 
It was a complete and utter chaos. Bats, moles, but the red one had been broken first 
worms, ducks, eels, and a dozen other species crawled, The roof fell in, 
flew, ran, bit, shrieked, snarled, grunted, whooped, and ~ 

croaked all over the place. From all directions the re- ' A short while later, Crockett dragged himself paln- 
maining gnomes — only about a thousand now — were fully from the debris. A glance showed him that the 
converging on a surging mound of gnomes that marked way to the outer world was still open. And — thank, 
where the emperor was. As Crockett stared the mound Heaven ! — daylight looked normal again, not that flam-, 
dissolved, and a number of gecko lizards fled to safety. ing blaze of eye-searing white. 

” Strike, will you! ,} Podrang bellowed. “Til show He looked toward the depths of the tunnel, and froze. 
your ' Podrang was emerging, with some difficulty, from a- 

Crockett turned and fled. The throne room, was de- mound of rubble. His low curses had lost none of their 
serted, and he ducked into the first tunnel. There, he fire, 

concentrated on thinking of daylight. His left ear felt Crockett turned to run, stumbled over a rock, and 
compressed. He sped on till he saw a side passage on fell flat. As he sprang up, he saw that Podrang had 
the left, slanting up, and turned into it at top speed, seen him. 

The muffled noise of combat died behind him. The gnome stood transfixed for a moment. Then he 

He clutched the red Cockatrice Egg tightly. What yelled, spun on his heel, and fled into the darkness. He 
had gone wrong ? Podrang should have stopped to par- wa $ gone. The sound of his rapid footfalls died, 
ley. Only- — only he hadn’t. ’ A singularly bad-tem- Crockett swallowed with difficulty. Gnomes are 
pered and short-sighted gnome.* He probably wouldn’t afraid of men — whew f That had. been a close squeak, 
stop till he'd depopulated his entire kingdom. At the But now — 

thought Crockett hurried along -faster. • He .was more relieved than he had thought. Subcon-. 

The tropism guided him. Sometimes he took the sciousI ^ he must have been wondering whether the spell 

wrong tunnel, but always, whenever he thought of day- would work, since Podrang had flung six or seven 

light, he would feel the nearest daylight pressing against Cockatrice Eggs at him. But he had smashed the red 

him. His short, bowed legs were surprisingly hardy. t one ^ rst * ^ ven the strange, silvery gnomelight was 

w ‘ gone; The depths of the cave were utterly black — and 

Then he heard someone running after him. silent 

He didn’t turn.-' The sizzling blast of profanity that Crockett headed for the entrance. He pulled himself 
curled his -ears told him the identity of the pursuer. out> i uxuriating in the warmth of the afte rnoon sun. He 
Podrang had no doubt cleared the Council Chamber, to was near ~ t he foot of Dornsef Mountain, in a patch of 
the last gnome, and was now intending to tear Crockett brambles . A hundred feet away a farmer was plowing 
apart pinch by pinch. That was only one of the things one terrace 0 f - a 

he promised. Crockett stumbled toward him. As he approached, 

Crockett ran. He shot along that tunnel like a bullet, the man turned. 

The tropism guided him, but he was terrified lest he He stood transfixed for a moment. Then he yelled, 
reach a dead end. The plamor from behind grew louder, spun on his heel, and fled. - 

If Crockett hadn’t known better, he would have imag- His shrieks drifted back up the mountain as Crockett, 
ined that an army of gnomes pursued him. ^ _ remembering the Cockatrice Eggs, forced himself to 

Faster! Faster! 'But now Podrang was in sight. look down at his own body. 

His roars shook the very walls. Crockett sprinted, Then he screamed, too. But the sound was not one 
rounded a corner, and saw a' wall of flaming light — a that could ever have emerged from a human throat, 

circle of it, in the distance. It was daylight, as it ap- ' Still, that was natural enough — -under the' circum- 
peared to gnomic eyes. stances — 

' THE END. 

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ON BOOKS OF MAGIC 

S 

THE BOOK OF SACRED MAGIC OF ABRAMELIN THE MAGE 

By Comte de L'Avro 



Why is it that books on genuine magic or theurgy 
are so hard to discover? It is because of numerous 
small editions, private publications, and the binding 
oaths of secrecy taken by magicions. Despite these 
limitations, it is possible for the bibliophile to be com- 
municable at times regarding works on magic. 

One of the most extraordinary works of all time on 
genuine magic is “The Book of the Sacred Magic of 
Abramelin the Mage.” The original handwritten manu- 
script of this work is in the archives of the Bibliotheque 
de F Arsenal, Paris. The contents are written in 
medieval French but were translated from Hebrew, 
which, in turn, was received from an Egyptian. S. L. 
McGregor Mathers, a personage of great learning in 
magical and occult studies, translated this old French 
manuscript into English (1883). Mathers mentions 
in the introduction (page XVI) of his work that Bul- 
wer Lytton knew of and had access to this curious 
cabalistic and magical manuscript in Paris. He says 
that Lytton's books, “Zanoni” and “The Strange 
Story,” famous novels on magic, have chapters that 
are identical with the directions given in “The Book 
of Sacred Magic.” It resembles not at all the offensive 
so-called grimoires or magical conjuring books. It is 
written in a simple yet exalted style which makes for 
a very good understanding of its magical formulae. 
There are no intricate or impossible directions to fol- 
^ low or paraphernalia to obtain. 

The two original Egyptian documents of Abramelin 
have had another section added to them, making three 
in all. This additional section or the first part con- 
sists of the experiences and travels of one known as 
Abraham the Jew. This Abraham the Jew, after years 
of travel in search of wisdom and riches, returned to 
Europe with Abramelin’s Egyptian document, where 
he won great fame as a magician. History reports that 
such a strange character, around 1400, actually did per- 
form marvelous acts .of magic before the rich and the 
nobility such as the Emperor of Germany, King 
Henry VI of England, Pope John XXIII, and the 
Duke of Bavaria. This colorful personage also pos- 
sessed vast wealth which he claimed to have received 
by magical processes. He also saved the day by invok- 
ing twenty thousand strange soldiers — who appeared 
real enough — from the shadow world for the German 
ruler, Frederick I, who was waging a losing battle 
near Brux in 1425. Then, too, he was able to go among 
people apparently invisible. These and many other al- 
most unbelievable deeds he performed. 

Parts Two and Three give the method, directions and 
instructions whereby the phenomena may be produced. 



In this second division or Part Two the aspirant 
must go into a six months' retreat according to certain 
directions, or at least live in the country where he 
will be able to be alone most of the time for six months. 
His residence in the country must have a small room 
which can be converted into a sanctum. This sanc- 
tum is to be furnished primarily with a small triangular 
altar, a censer and an oil lamp which is to burn only 
olive oil. Even the incense is specified as being four 
parts of Olibanum, two parts of Storax, and one part 
of Lignum-aloes. 

No living animal or person is to have access to this 
sanctum but the student. The seeker for strange 
powers performs various disciplines in this six-month 
period by a gradual intensification of his actions every 
two months. 

The second period of two months finds the candi- 
date spending more time in his sanctum and less time 
outside, until by the last two months he is “inflamed” 
with invocations. It is during this time that most 
aspirants become discouraged and a thousand and 
one seductions attempt to lure him from completing the 
course he has chosen. If he persists, the “Dark Night 
of the Soul” will gradually pass and then a new and 
marvelous “Dawn” of consciousness will be the result. 
Finally the last period culminates in an elaborate cere- 
mony wherein the candidate invokes his Guardian 
Angel, Adonai, or Higher Self. 

If he is successful and is able to invoke his guardian 
angel at will, he becomes possessed with the powers 
of an Adept. Such powers imply control over the 
principalities and powers of the shadow world as well 
as of 'the hidden forces in nature. 

The third division of this great book of sacred magic 
gives the principal manner or agency through which 
the Adept exercises his super human powers. Certain 
magic squares based upon the names of planetary spir- 
its, angels and other powers are used as focal points 
for potent forces. The invocation of the Adept magi- 
cian, because of his conscious control of the powerful 
guardian angel, magnetizes each square according to 
the name represented. This magnetized focal point 
causes the actual power , to perform the deeds he is 
qualified to do. 

It is the writer's conclusion that genuine magic is 
a very ancient and universal art. If it were always 
and in every respect charlatanry as the skeptic would 
have us believe, it would have been thrown on the 
rubbish heap and forgotten by disillusioned humanity 
long ages past. Orval Graves. 



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f 





By Sila&i Ali Has sail 




@ The dolphin was stranded in a tidal pool, 'till a 
little Cockney sailor, stranded in a foreign port, rescued 
St And the dolphin showed a strange gratitude— . 



“Never moi'nd where I gawt it!” 
Cork sneered. “Hi might ave got 
it from a fish. There's a bloody 
hounce o' gold in each — hin it ! — 
an' gol’ is wuth thirty-foive Yank 
dollars to the hounce. Do Hi get 
me foive pound fer the blinkin' 
coin, or don’t I?” 

Leer, the. pawnbroker, stared at 
the’ yellow disk. It was about the 
size of a fifty-cent piece, possibly 
twice as thick and. three times as 
heavy. The head of a damsel pro- 
filed its face across one. side amidst 
a tangle of fine mold and discolor; 
the other side bore a date, 1667 , 
and some coarse lettering, * It was 
obviously of Spanish or French ori- 
gin, judging from the characteristics 
of the print. 

Cork was sopped — inwardly with 
canned heat and rotten rum, and 



Illustrated by ScHneeman 

outwardly with briny sea water. 
His wringing dungs were bedrag- 
gled and filthy, his shoes, torn and 
weathered at the' toes. A coarse 
turtle-neck sweater, sagging and 
misfitted, clung to him like seaweed 
to a rotting hull. And from bald 
spot to the portholes in his shoes, 
he was crummy with sand and flakes 
of salt. 

Leer tested the coin for its gold 
content, leering suspiciously at Cork 
alL the while. Cork grunted impa- 
tiently and waited. 

“I’ll give you a fin for it,” the‘ 
broker decided at length. 

Cork exploded like the impact of 
a blue shark tiffing with a whale. 
“Gimme thet blarsted thing!” he 
howled, reaching over the counter 
for.it. “A fin — one quid — ye say! 
See ye teh ’ell before Hi gi’ ye the 



doubloon fer a measly pound!” - 
“Wait a minute,” Leer bartered 
oilily, drawing back out of Cork’s 
reach. “How much do you want 
‘.for it?”.. 

“Foive quid!” Cork shrilled. 
“Twenty-foive o’ yer Yank dollars' 
— an’ hit’s wuth ten!” 

“All right. All right,” the broker 
agreed, fetching a coin book and 
thumbing the pages. “How many 
more of them do you have ?” 

Cork grinned shrewdly and fol- 
lowed the broker to a grille. “So 
Hi’m fetchin’ a little hinterest,” he 
observed. “Maybe we can do a lit- 
tle trafficking ; but cross this scurvy 
palm o’ mine, fust. Five poun’ 
sterling, right here” — and he pointed 
to a callus. “Right here.” 

Leer ignored him while he 
scanned a couple of pages of the 



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THE DOLPHIN'S DOUBLOONS 



123 



catalogue, and then stepped abruptly 
to a drawer and shoved twenty-five 
dollars through the cage window 
into Cork’s hand. 

"Now,” he suggested smoothly, 
"how many of them did you say 
you had?” 

Cork snatched the money, counted 
it and slipped it into his pocket. 
"Hi , didn’t say !” he snapped, turn- 
ing to the door. "But hif Hi decide 
different, Hill call ag’in — ” 

Frisco’s Embarcadero wharfs a 
dozen hock shops to the block, each 
lined on both sides by rum cellars 
and cheap chop and chow houses. 
Cork ignored the latter but wabbled 
his way into another pawn joint 
and bought a large money belt. 

A few minutes later he was worm- 
ing his way through the marine gear 
and discarded lifeboats of an aban- 
doned lot. Concealed from passers- 
by, he unhitched his breeches, 
pulled up the rim of his sweater and 
fastened the belt around his middle. 
Handful after handful of the golden 
coins went into the money bag, 
fairly filling it and a few moments 
later, bulging noticeably at the 
waist, he was staggering through 
the debris and back to the street 
singing : 

'With a yo-'eave-ho an * ha fare-you^well. 
And a sudden plunge in the sullen swell. 
Ten fathoms deep on the road to 'ell — 
Yo-ho-ho an' a bottle o' rum." 

The tide had turned and he was 
still singing the same song five hours 
later. Another hour, another bottle 
of rum and he was drooling himself 
an encore, walking, stumbling, lum- 
bering along like a tightrope walker, 
looking for a taxi. And he found 
one, 

"Out to the beash,” he ordered — 
and made as if to clamber aboard. 

"Wait a minute,” the cabby 
growled, grabbing him by the seat 
of the trousers and pulling him back 
into the street. "Have you got any 
dough ?” 

"Enough to buy you an’ ye’r 
bloody jitney!” Cork slobbered. "I 
shaid, out to the beash — ” 

It was dawn when Cork awoke. 
The Pacific’s icy brine was lapping 



at his sweater and Frisco’s biting 
wind was snapping at his chest. He 
was lying on his side in ankle-deep 
water, his head throbbing in rhythm 
with the swells that lapped through 
a V-shaped aperture in front of him 
and a schooner beam away. He 
could see the open sea through the 
crevice, the sloping beach of the tiny 
lagoon, the cloudy sky off to port — 
Cork fell into a fit of coughing 
and put a hand to his head, rubbing 
it sharply as if the motion would 
lessen the awful pain. There was 
a terrible taste in his mouth and his 
tongue felt as hard as stone — and 
scaly— so that it hurt him when he 
tried to dampen his lips. His hand 
came away covered with coagulated 
blood and he stared at it dumbly as 
if it were someone else’s hand, 
someone else’s blood. Still half 
within his drunken stupor, he tried 
to rise, grunting at the horrible 
pains that shot through him from 
his rheumatic joints. 

The action served to turn him 
more to one side, press him harder 
against something that was soft and 
warm. He was suddenly conscious 
that although his chest was half 
frozen from exposure, his back felt 
comfortably warm, and he forced his 
eyes open a second time in order to 
see what the obstruction was. 

Cork tvas lying flush against the 
belly and side of a huge dolphin . 

"Davey!” Cork croaked, turning 
completely over. " ’Ow did you get 
here — in a dutty pub — ” And he 
stopped short as the realization 
came to him suddenly that he was 
in no pub; that he was in the self- 
same lagoon where he had originally 
met Davey, the dolphin. 

" ’Ow?” he hacked in a spasm, 
trying vainly to get to his feet and 
abandoning the idea. “ ’Ow did Hi 
get—” 

The dolphin thrashed its way 
through the six-inch water, half 
prodding, half wriggling over the 
sandy bed to halt abruptly flush 
against Cork. Cork watched stu- 
pidly, fighting to remembef, while 
the dolphin alternately thrust its 
blunt snout into the water and out. 

Memory came back to him with 
a crash of bells. Someone had way- 
laid him ! Someone had struck him 



with a club and thrown him into 
the lagoon for dead ! 

He felt the gash on his forehead 
and pried about with his finger. 
He could feel his skull through the 
lips of the rent. 

"Blimey !” he muttered. "An- 
other hinch an’ they’d a-scuttled ol’ 
Cork. But I guess Hi was a wil- 
low too sturdy fer thim — the bloody 
blokes ! But they could’n’ ’a’ 
guessed ol’ Cork’s crow’s nest’s 
made o’ ironwood — ” 

His fingers flitted to the money 
belt. It was there and intact. A 
painful search of his pockets netted 
him tupn’ce and his old jackknife. 
He replaced these and turned his 
attention to Davey, the dolphin. 

"Ye found me ag’in, ye owld sea 
cow;/’ he coughed affectionately. 

Cork’s bloodshot , eyes labored 
their way about and took in the 
surroundings. "Ye should ’ave 
known better than to come back up 
into the slough,” he scowled. "Hif 
it ’adn’t been for me the last time 
I blundered haroun’ ’ere, ye’d ’a’ 
dried up dead in this blasted ’ole! 
So I ’elped ye back into the sea be- 
cause all the fishes are my frien’s. 
And last night, whin thim dastard 
buggers rammed me fo’c’s’le with a 
marlin spike, ye stayed aboard an’ 
warded off the sharks — bless ye, 
Davey !” and Cork gave the dolphin 
an affectionate pat. 

Cork went into another spasm and 
managed a croaking laugh. " ’Elp 
me to my feet, ye playful idjut!” he 
suggested. "I’ll see wot’s to be 
done. The slough’ll dry before long 
an’ I’ve got to get ye out before the 
tide fetches full offshore.” 

He strained to a sitting position 
and braced himself against the 
smooth back of the dolphin, manag- 
ing thusly to gain his feet. He 
reeled dizzily about for a moment 
and then finally 'Stood erect. 

Surveying the scene, he mo- 
tioned cliffward. "Get yerself off 
into the deeper water,” he ordered, 
"an’ Hi ’ll sail on up to the beach. 
Flip yerself out on the sand, hand 
I’ll try an’ roll ye o’er the hump. 
Blimey if I know whether I’m poop- 
brained or not, an’ if I wake an’ find 
Hi’m ’aving D. T. from the rotten 
rum I’ve drunk, I’ll swear I’ll never 



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124 



UNKNOWN WORLDS 



touch a briny drop until I die. Up deeper with each breath. The air “Moses!’' oathed Leer as Cork 
anchor — ■” And he reeled off to- felt icy and the sand and rocks be- staggered through the door a few 
'ward the tiny beach ahead. . neath raspbd and irritated him wher- minutes before closing time, reeling, 

ever they touched. He felt of his plunging from one showcase to an- 

He passed the spot where the forehead and drew his hand away , other. “What’s happened to you?” 

water poured back into the ocean abruptly. and he hurried around a luggage 

through the V-sliaped gap— by far “Got a fever,” he mumbled display to take Cork by the arm. 
too narrow now for the passage of weakly. “Looks much like they Cork, jerked away and struggled 

the bulky-bodied dolphin— and man- scuttled ol’ Cork after all. Hi’ll to a chair. “I’m stout enough to 

aged to gain the beach after falling have to get down to some God- ’andle me own seas,” he grated as 

a time or two. The fish gained the forsaken pub an’ get myself a drink' . he fell into it. “A bottle o’ bloody 

deeper water near ..the rocky exit o’ rum” — with which he managed to rum; Hill gi’e ye a cursed doub- 

and waited. When Cork reached rise and stagger along the shore. loon fer hit — ” 

the. spot he had spoken of, Davey But the fever limited his stride and “It’s a deal!” Leer snapped, 
backed as far into the deeper water he hadn’t gone but a cable length starting for the door. “Be back 

as she could. There was a sudden or - so before he dropped in his* in a jiffy — ” 

turmoil of wildly-thrashing fins and tracks, too weary to move. * Cork stared glumly until the 

tail — and she shot through the sur- ,He was on fire from head to foot. broker had vanished beyond the 
face with the speed of a hurricane, His head beat a tattoo with the plate-glass window, and then fum- 
to land with a squish , at Cork’s breakers and his joints had frozen bled with his sweater. The money 

feet. to the spot. The weight of the belt was obstinate and Leer had re- 

Davey had cleared fifteen feet of doubloons in his belt was growing' appeared, bottle in hand, just as 

damp sand in 'the leap, and Cork greater and greater all the time. He ' Cork was replacing the woolen rim. 

bent his aching back to rolling the doubted that he’d scrape the strength Cork sighted the bottle and sucked 

dolphin up the incline. * to lift them from the ground again. in his breath, half rising, half 

“ ’Oo’d of thought that Cork,” f “Three thousand leagues from a reaching, 

the sailor grunted, pushing with all ‘home port,” he grumbled half “The gold piece,” Leer demanded, 

his might, “would get blarnied on aloud, “and with a cargo in my his arm outstretched, 

canned ’eat an’ get to actin’ nurse- money belt— hand Hi ’aven’t Cork threw it at him and snatched* 

maid to a fish!” He stopped for strength enough to walk one league the bottle out of his hands, sprawl- 

a few minutes to catch his breath. to get a drink o’ rum — ” and he ing to the floor as he did so. His 

Davey was covered with sand from fell' to laughter. “An’ ’oo’d believe fingers ‘fumbled with the seal, and 

snout to tail and lay still, panting' me hif I told them that a fish’d given failing to unfasten it, he brought 

fully as hard and twice as loudly me that gold from gratitude!” . the neck of the bottle down on the 

as Cork himself. “And ’oo’d of There was a swirling splash, and edge of a, nearby spittoon, shattering 
thought the blessed fish’d show her Cork, not bothering to look around, it. The jagged edges shot to his 

love in such a blessed way !” with saw a huge gray body, plunge into lips and he drank, a trickle of the - 

which he bent to rolling, jostling, view to land with a scraping squish stuff making its way down over his • 

pushing the thrashing dolphin to- at his feet. chin and into ' his already soggy 

ward the top of the incline. .“Blast “Ahoy, matey!” Cork gasped, sweater. 

ye, Davey! Ye must weigh all of fighting back the pain in his chest - / The/ broker was examining the 

forty stone— han’ that hisn’t no sar- “Ye back; an’ where—” gold piece and satisfied. that it was - 

dine! He stopped short as the dolphin identical to the first, lowered his 

Cork gave the fish a final nudge • retched — and spewed the sand about . jeweler’s glass and came back 

with his foot, and Davey slid down with golden doubloons ! around the counter, 

the steep incline and into the sea It was the second time Cork had “Take it easy, old fella,” he ad-, 

with no further help. witnessed the phenomenon. It vised. “Broken glass will kill 

The dolphin had scarcely touched stupefied him as much as did the you—” 

the water than it was gone like a first and it was some seconds be- Cork lowered the bottle, coughed 

flash. It shortly appeared offshore, fore he could bring it on himself and sputtered once or twice, and 

thrashing and flailing about in ap- to laugh. “Ye . didn’t ’ave to pay raised it again. “Hi’ve taken o’ me 

parent glee. Cork watched for a again,” he croaked, pressing a rum from jagged necks before,” he 

moment or two, nauseated by the gnarled fist to his chest, “I’m grumbled as he lowered the bottle 

effort he had made, ,saw the. sky and loaded down as it is an’ you’ve the second time. “Hit’s clothes that 

sea change places, felt the beach — shown your gratitude enough.” He I’ll be needin’; warm ones — ” 

surf, and all overturn and crash reached out and picked up one of “Worse than that,” Leer grinned, 
-into his face and then plunged down thje coins. “Just like the - others; “You look to be pretty, well busted 

the incline, unconscious. ye must ’ave a chest, of thim some- up. Better come on back into the 

He awoke with a burning pain where; Maybe a galley* sunk some back room and let- me take a look 

in his chest a pain that stabbed time ago — ” at that cut in your head — ” 

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126 



UNKNOWN WORLDS 



Cork eyed him closely for the first 
time. The broker was a full hand 
shorter than Cork, and weighed, 
perhaps, two thirds as much. In 
spite of the fact, that his image per- 
sisted in galavanting about like a 
scow on the open sea, Cork could 
see that the broker was an old man. 
His features were gaunt and wrin- 
kled, his hands, long-naiied and 
thin. There was a certain some- 
thing about him that even low- 
grade Jamaica rum could not oblit- 
erate — -a something that suggested 
the name Leer, although ' Cork had 
never seen the man before in his 
life. 

“Maybe ye're right," the sailor 
mumbled, taking another drink. “Ye 
couldn't be up to mischief with a 
hull as sturdy as . an heggshell — " 

Ignoring the offer of aid from 
the broker, he managed to stagger 
into a small rear office. Leer 
snapped on a desk light and pushed 
a chair within Cork’s range. 

“I'm your friend," he offered. 
“You're sick. Maybe you'd better 
let me call an ambulance and get 
you to a hospital — " 

Cork stared blankly at the floor. 
It was rising and falling like the 
swells in a sheltered cove." Some- 
where in the distance, a ship's bell 
sounded. Vaguely, he tried to 
count the strokes, mumbled, “I told 
ye I can sail the straits meself" 
— wobbled a degree or two — “Take 
the watch, matey”— and crumpled 
to the floor. 

CoRK' knew nothing for a fort- 
night and ydien he opened his .eyes 
again, the .walls and ceiling were 
pitching in unison with the familiar 
sounds of a surf and groaning tim- 
bers, In perfect contentment, he 
. dozed away, his faculties drifting 
off into a total- blank. The second 
tinie he regained consciousness, the 
seas had calmed somewhat and the 
booming of the -surf .had receded. 

The third time he came to with 
a roar: “I'm shanghaied!" he bel- 
lowed — struggling weakly to rise. 
“The bloody dogs ’ave shipped me!" 

There was a commotion at the 
doorway and a nurse entered the 
room. Cork stared at her stupidly 
as she pressed him back beneath 



the covers. “No such thing," she 
smiled. “You’re safe ashore and 
getting well— and the 4 most impor- 
tant thing right now is Tor you to 
stay tucked in. _ If you do, you'll 
be back on your ship inside of a 
week." - 

Things were difficult for Cork to 
understand and he intuitively pushed 
her hands away and felt of his 
head. It was swathed in bandages 
from forehead to nape. The walls 
and ceiling had stopped their pitch- 
ing and even the chandelier was mo- 
tionless. There was an odor of 
medicine in the air, thrice as offen- 
sive because of its antonymous "re- 
lationship to the smell of rum or 
salt water. 

, He closed .his, eyes for what 
seemed an instant, and when he had 
reopened them, Leer was at the 
bedside, trying to look as pleasant 
as possible. 

“Shylock!" Cork croaked disgust - 
edly. 

Leer's face took on an expression 
of dissatisfaction. “That doesn't 
sound very much like gratitude," he 
grumbled, motioning the nurse to 
leave, “especially since I’ve brought 
you into my home, saved your life 
and spent a small fortune in bring- 
ing you out of it. You had pneu- 
monia. I don't know what you call 
it on shipboard, but here on land, 
it's figured pretty good for a kill." 

“Ye didn’t do it from philan- 
thropy, Hi’ll bet a can o' heat," Cork 
croaked back ; “ye're a ball-shop 
broker, hand they're — " 

. “Never mind that," Leer snorted. 
“I guess maybe I was wrong. But 
wrong or not, I've been up with 
you almost every night for two 
weeks, and paying a nurse good 
money during days — not counting 
doctor bills and such. The least' 
you can do is keep your , salty trap 
shut !" with which he wheeled about 
and left the room. 

Cork's mind was too muddled to 
. try and think ^ it out so he let it 
go at that. A doctor visited him 
later in the day, .and still laterj he 
had something to_eat. At seven in 
the evening, the nurse tucked him in 
and left,- and at eight, Cork was fast 
asleep. 



The sound of the door opening 
awoke him. It was Leer, the same 
businesslike grin on his face; the 
same shrewd look he had displayed 
during the bartering of the gold 
pieces. 

The realization struck Cork like 
the weather side of a tidal wave. 
He had forgotten something, but 
that look was enough to remind him 
and he clawed his way upward to 
a sitting position in the bed. 

“My doubloons!" he shrilled. 
“My golden doubloons — " 

Leer stepped to the bedside and 
tried to push him back beneath the 
covers. Cork's face crimsoned and 
he collapsed weakly. 

“My doubloo — " 

“Shut up, you old — " Leer 
snarled. “I’ll give you back your 
lousy belt — " 

“I knew it!" Cork roared. “You 
blasted bugger! You . , . you — 
I’ll bust ye're bulkheads ! I’ll splin- 
ter ye’re hull !" 

He made a wild motion ^as if to 
grasp hold of the broker, shrieking 
and gasping all tbe while. Leer re- 
treated through the door and ap- 
peared a moment later bearing the 
"money belt. He tossed it roughly 
into Cork's lap where it struck with 
a painful thump. 

Cork was mute, dumfounded. 
His fingers fumbled with the fasten- 
ings and * he poured the doubloons 
out. They had not been touched, 
seaweed, sand and all. 

“Count them," Leer snarled. 
“Every last one of them is there, 
you stinking tar!" 

Cork stared, stupefied. “A 
blinkin' loan broker with a heart," 
he mumbled dazedly. “Hit don’t 

add to two and two." - 

* > 

Leer exuded a sickly grin and 
motioned to a cabinet.^ “Glad you’re 
satisfied," he grunted. “Let's have 
a drink of rum." 

“Rum !" echoed Cork/ forgetting 
doubloons and all. “And Jamaica, 
too — " he croaked, eying the bottle 
as Leer unsealed it. . 

Leer pushed it to him. “One 
drink," he ' ordered, “and you 
shouldn’t have that." 

Cork took the bottle, eying it 
doubtfully. “I hain't s wrong as a 
rule," he grumbled -guiltily, his dry 



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THE DOLPHIN’S DOUBLOONS 



lips suddenly beginning to drool. 
“But Hi guess Hi — ” The bottle 
went up into the air and stayed 
there until Leer snatched it away. 

“That’s enough/’ he snapped. 
“Too much will kill you in the 
shape you’re in. Now let’s be 
friends — and I’ll guarantee you that 
you’ll get enough rum to float a 
schooner in. Tell me” — and he 
leaned forward just a trifle — “about 
Davey.” 

Cork was still feeling the fire in 
his throat and stomach and was of 
no mind to listen as long as the 
bottle of rum was within range. 
But the mention of Davey brought 
his head up with a snap. 

“Where in ’ell did ye find that 
out?” he grunted amazedly, scoop- 
ing the doubloons back into the belt 
and fastening it about his middle. 

“You talked while you were de- 
lirious,” Leer replied. 

“An hif I told ye, ye’d laugh me 
out o’ port,” Cork rejoined. 

“Never mind that,” Leer snapped 
impatiently. “Who is he?” 

“’Oo is ’e!” Cork laughed. 
“Davey’s my little dol — ” He 

stopped abruptly, eying the bottle 
of rum. “Say,” he sneered, hic- 
cuping, “ye hain’t no blasted fool 
after ^Jl ! Ye’re takin’ a chance to 
lose this bloomin’ belt o’ gold to 
findin’ Davey an’ getting 
the hull of it !” He smacked 
his lips and nodded to the 
bottle. “Gimme a drink — ” 

The broker handed the 
bottle to him. Cork fetched 
it to the middle before Leer 
could retrieve it the second 
time. 

“I’ve spent money on 
you,” Leer said quietly, his 
eyes narrowing. “The least 
you can do is cut me in. I 
don’t want the stuff in that 
belt. But tell me where 
Davey is — ” 

“An’ what if I don’t,” 

Cork chuckled, already feel- 
ing the effects of the liquor 
on his weakened frame. 

Leer pointed at the win- 
dows. “I’ll strip you down, 
naked, lock you in, and 
break open the windows. In 



the morning you’ll be dead — and I’ll 
have the belt !” 

The doubloons suddenly felt like 
ice around Cork’s middle. He felt 
a sudden pain in his chest and he 
gasped involuntarily. Instinctively, 
he knew that what Leer had said 
was as accurate as the keel on a 
sloop. 

“An’ you’ll ’ang for it, you cursed 
dastard,” he half whispered. “You’ll 
’ang from the gallows like the 
cursed coward that ye be — ” 

“No,” sneered Leer. “I’m the 
man who paid to save your life. It 
would be no fault of mine if you 
woke in your delirium and opened 
those windows. I have been mak- 
ing every effort to save your life — 
not to kill you. And no one knows 

about the belt excepting you and 
}* 

me. 

Cork did not reply for some time. 
Instead, he kept his eye on the 
bottle and finally motioned to it. 
“Hi’ll take the bottle,” he muttered, 
“an’ think it over whilst I take a 
snift or two — ” 

“No!” Leer snapped. “A quart 
of rum would kill you. You haven’t 
eaten for two weeks.” 

“Then what do ye want, you 
scurvy ship rat !” Cork shrieked 
suddenly, trembling from stem to 
stern from the effort. “I told ye 



127 

that ye’d never believe me if I told 
you who Davey was!” 

“Who is he— and where is he?” 
“A fish !” snarled Cork. “That’s 
’00 ’e is ! A bloomin’ fish !” 

Leer arose deliberately. “So you 
think I’m fooling,” he sneered. 
“Maybe this will change your mind” 
— and he leaped to the foot of the 
bed and grasped hold of the sheets. 
Before Cork could raise a hand to 
stop him, he had ripped the covers 
away and tossed them into the cor- 
ner. “Now,” he whispered, “will 
you talk — or do I open the win- 
dows ?” 

Cork, naked except for a thin 
nightshirt, shivered atop the bed 
for a moment before he spoke. 

“Ye saved my life,” he bartered 
shrewdly, “an’ Hi’m a blasted fool 
for being so unreasonable. But true 
it is ; there hain’t no more but 
what’s in this here belt. I’m not 
snashing — ” 

“You’re a liar !” Leer echoed, 
sensing that Cork was weakening. 
“The coins in that belt are part of 
a shipment made by the queen of 
Spain to her colonies here on the 
coast in 1667. One entire mintage 
of them went down with the galley 
on the Faralones one night in a 
storm just outside the Golden Gate. 




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UNKNOWN WORLDS 



From what you said in your tan- 
trums, while I was fighting to keep 
you alive, there isn’t but two of you 
in on the take — and Davey’s the 
only one that guards the stuff. Take 
me to it and I’ll split three ways 
with you guys. Don’t, and Davey 
gets all that’s out there, I get what 
. you have jin the belt — and you get 
a pine box! 

Cork was stupefied. He pressed 
back on the bed, this time ignoring 
the bottle and eying the covers ly- 
ing in the corner. It was much 
/chillier than it had been with the 
covers oyer him and he imagined 
that he felt a stab — a faint -one — 
somewhere in his chest. 

“All right, The decided. “I guess 
you ' know too much abput hit. 
Fetch the covers-f-an’ let me ’ave a 
wee nip. Hi’ll draw ye a map ban’ 
gi’e ye a note to Davey — ” 

“No,” said Leen “I’ve got a bet- 
ter idea than that ; we’ll both go and 
‘ see Davey.” 

• “But* I’ve got pneumonia!” Cork 
pleaded. “Hit’ll be the death d’ 
me, sure — ” ' 

“No it won’t,” the broker, grinned. 
“My car’s good and warm, and if 
you’re careful, you’ll be all right.” 
“We need a boat — ” 

“I’ve got a, boat!” Leer snapped 
impatiently. 

“Hall right,” Cork agreed, grasp- 
ing at every . shred of flotsam he ^ 
could concoct. “We’ll leave bright 
an* early in the mornin’— ” 

Leer laughed. “We’re going 
noiv ” he said. 

A sudden terror took Cork. His 
mind fought wildly for. a channel 
out of the froth? — but he was too be- 
wildered and weak to figure any- 
thing other than to feign a break- 
down — and he tried that by stiffen- 
ing out and lying still., 

He heard Leer laugh, heard the 
windows open and felt the blast of 
icy air./ The ceiling trembled be- 
fore his eyes, the walls undulated 
and threatened to crush him — and 
he conceded. . 

“All right,” he moaned, desper- 
ately. “For now, ye’re the bigger 
frigate — ” 

“I thought you’d come around 
to my way of thinking,” Leer 



rasped exultantly, closing the win- 
dows. “I’ll get you some clothes. 
Don’t try anything funny or you’re 
a feathered tar.” ? 

Cork lay still, shivering with an 
ague that he knew spelled finish to 
him. But there was no alternative ; 
Leer, small as he was, could do -as 
he chose with Cork in his weakened 
condition. 

Frantically, he wondered what 
the effects of a trip into the night 
would incur. And the chase was 
useless. Davey was a fish, and there 
: was no hide-out with a chest of gold 
waiting. It was inane; there was 
no sense in leaving the place. 

Whether it was from the effect 
of the liquor he had taken earlier, or 
from the momentary blast of chilly 
air that had struck him when . the 
broker had opened the windows, he 
did not know, but Cork’s forehead 
was afire. That fire was a prelude 
to death. 

“We wrapped him up in a mains’ l tight , 
With twice ten turns of a hawser's bight 
And heaved him overboard and out of 
sight—” 

Cork shuddered as the familiar 
verse came to his mind. And he 
shuddered again as Leer entered 
the room bearing 5 a bundle of cloth- 
ing. There was a happy tingle to 
the perpetual sneer that creased his 
nose. 

“Here’s enough clothes to melt an 
Eskimo,” he grinned. “If you’re 
careful, you won’t feel any the worse 
when we get back.” 

“Ye’re crazy as a Welsh mule,” 
Cork murmured. “Why don’t ye 
listen to me? Why — ” 

Leer tossed the bundle to the 
bed. “Put them on,” was all he 
said. 

“Davey’s a fish!” Cork shrilled. 
“Ye can’t talk greed to a fish — ” 
Leer purpled and sprang for- 
ward, his .bony, fingers clutching 
Cork’s nightgown at the throat. 
“Once and for all,” he snarled, “are 
you going to take me to the cache ?” 
“Yes!” Cork exploded into the 
broker’s face. “Hi’ll take • ye to 
whtere Hi gawt the bloody dou-. 
bloons ! Hi’ll take ye there an’ ’ope' 
to see ye rot han’ bury hin thim'up 



to ye’r scurvied neck, ye dastardly 
pirate!” 

Leer pushed him back into bed. 
“That’s better,” he grated. “Let’s 
get going—” 

\ 

The cold blast of air struck :■ 
Cork in the small slit that weathered 
his eyes. He was swathed from 
head to foot, but the wind pierced 
the two short topcoats, the sweater, 
the muffler ; slashed its way into his 
hide. He leaned heavier on Leer’s, 
shoulder, wondering vaguely 
whether Leer was armed — and if so’ 
where. 

Each few steps would bring daz- 
zling lights but of the darkness — 
lights that looked like a mental fire- 
works display more than .they did 
anything. And with each breath, 
that dread stab in . his lungs. Aside 
from the occasional bite of wind that 
penetrated his clothes, the fever 
persisted, gained headway as the 
minutes went by. 

“I’ll never make it,” he choked in 
a half whisper. “My fever’s gettin’ 
wuss han’ I’m ready to turn my 
beam ends up — ” 

Leer’s grip about the sailor’s 
“ waist and wrist tightened. A min- 
ute more and they had traversed the 
short distance over a pier to a boat- 
house and Leer was pushing Cork 
into the front cockpit of a low -hulled 
speedboat. - 

“Now,” the broker growled as 
Cork collapsed into the cushioned 
seat, “don’t try anything funny.” 
His hand flitted to an inside pocket 
and . he drew an automatic and 
placed it alongside the controls op- 
posite the sailor. “Which one of the 
Faralones is Davey hiding on?” 

Cork grimaced and clenched his 
teeth, peering blearily through the 
folds of the muffler and half laugh- 
ing to himself. Aside from Leer’s 
query, Cork knew that the ^broker 
harbored no ideas of bringing Cork 
back to shore alive. Likewise, it . 
was perfectly obvious that Leer had 
no intentions of splitting the ficti- 
tious loot with anyone but himself. 

. “The south island,” Cork parried, 
glumly "praying for an opening. 
“Bad reefs on the way into the 
cove. Better let me take the ’elm 
whin we get there — ”• 



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129 



Leer pressed the starter button 
and the engine started with a roar. 
He idled it a moment before he re- 
plied. 

‘Til do all the piloting,” he de- 
cided suspiciously, as the boat shot 
away from the pier and nosed out 
into the main channel and on into 
the bay. 

The landing lights vanished to 
the rear and the craft bounced from 
swell to swell at a pace Cork had 
never traveled before. The lights 
of the Embarcadero and midnight 
Market Street eased by and a half- 
hour found them headed into the 
Golden Gate and a choppy sea. 

Cork’s mind was in a whirl and 
he found himself wishing for a drink 
— and then chuckling to himself at 
the irony of such a wish, when, as 
the chances were, it was his last. 
His thoughts drifted onward and 
he pried his mind for an idea that 
might provide a channel out of the 
melee. His chuckle broke out into 
a rasping laugh and he half turned 
to Leer. 

“Shylock,” he bartered crazily, 
yelling above the drone of the motor 
and the splash of the wake. “Oi’ve 
gawt a proposition fer ye, hif ye’ll 
listen.” 

Leer eased the throttle halfway 
back and the roar subsided some- 
what. “ Nothing funny,” he scowled. 

“No,” Cork grunted earnestly. 
“Fetch an ear. Davey’s dead; 
them’s ’is bones I was whale-blowin’ 
aboot. They’re all that’s guardin’ 
the blessed hoard. Now, I’d been 
dead fer sure hif ye ’adn’t ’elped 
me. There’s only two of us to di- 
vide the bloomin’ treasure. ’Alf an’ 
’alf wi’ me-4ran’ Hi’ll take you to 
the * blinkin’ spot, no questions 
asked—” 

“Well!” Leer scowled. “What 
the hell you think I've been talking 
about all night. Let’s go; you said 
trie south island — ” 

“Good then,” Cork croaked. 
“Hi’ll take the wheel — ” 

“You will not !” Leer snarled, 
smashing Cork back into his seat. 
His hand flitted to the throttle and 
the motor answered, Cork sprawled 
into a corner of the cockpit, strug- 
gling to rise, blinded by his effort 



and with his heart pounding in his 
temples. 

“I gawt thim from a fish!” he 
shrieked, gaining his feet and 
plunging headlong onto Leer. “Hits 
blessed name’s Davey! Hi gawt 
thim from a fish, ye blasted maniac,! 
A fish! A fish—” 

One of Leer’s fists left the wheel 
and shot upward. Cork, muffler 
torn away and trailing over the 
bows, felt a stab of pain as the blow 
struck him on the side of the head. 
The murky sky upended and his 
head hit the floorboards of the 
boat. There was a galaxy of stars, 
more fireworks — and he was silent. 

When Cork opened his eyes 
again, the pounding beneath the 
bandages of his head was terrific. 
His muffler was gone, and the 
clothes about his chest were dis- 
arranged. He was still in the boat 
— but Leer was nowhere* about. 
Wildly, he struggled to a sitting po- 
sition, the beat of his heart accentu- 
ated by a horrible pain in his side. 

Struggling frantically to see 
through the blear of his eyes, the 
roar of the motor first penetrated 
the bandages on his skull— and 
then, with a pang of nausea, he 
discerned the form of Leer outlined 
in the front cockpit beyond the en- 
gine hatch. The broker had put 
him in the rear cockpit, obviously 
to keep him out of the way. 

There was a turmoil of emotions 
within Cork — and from somewhere, 
struggling to creep upward and 
overcome him, a lethargy wormed its 
ominous way. Cork knew what it 
was as plainly as he knew that he 
would never live to step ashore 
again. How long he had been ly- 
ing there, chest exposed, dampened 
by the spray of the prow, he did not 
know — but he knew that the end 
had come.. And with it, a fury. 

A forty-pound brass anchor on 
the bottom of the cockpit caught his 
fumbling eye. His numbing fingers 
slipped to the floor boards of the 
stern and he felt of them. 

“Like the calking on a dory,” he 
muttered to himself. “Flimsy as 
the bloody mizzen on a junk.” 

His fingers wrapped themselves 
about the heavy anchor. Weakly, 



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he raised one end of it, chuckling 
and struggling to keep himself from 
losing consciousness.- But. lifting 
the entire anchor was another thing 
again — -and it was some minutes be- 
fore he could raise it to the level 
of his knees. 

A moment of steady manipulation 
brought one of the brass points in 
direct line with the floor and Cork 
paused to rest. -The strain' had 
doubled the stab in his side and he 
wondered vaguely whether he 
would be able to raise the anchor 
any higher. > 

And then, with a final super- 
human effort, he lunged upward 
with all his strength and sent the 
brass point crashing into the flimsy 
calking of the hull. 1 

There was a. splintering crunch 
and the point buried itself clear 
to the flange. Briny sea water shot 
upward in a tiny geyser and bathed 
Cork's feet. 

Leer looked about but did not 
cut the speed of the boat. 

“So you've come to," he shouted 
above the roar of the motor. “I 
thought you'd bailed for keeps." He 
threw a glance toward the dark 
cliffs ahead. “While you were out, 

I just thought of something. The 
south island is only a few acres in 
area. It wouldn't be hard to find 
Davey on it. I could do that with- 
out your help — " and he burst into 
laughter. 

Cork's eyes fell to the geyser of 
water at his feet and he joined in 
the laughter. “Ye're right!" he 
croaked, grasping hold of the an- 
chor and wrenching it free of the 
aperture. The sudden inrush, 

THE 

f 



trebled in volume by the momentum 
of the boat, had already reached a 
depth of . some inches. “Ye'll get 
the gold" — his .eyes flitted , to the 
cliffs, ahead and then shoreward — 
“but it's too blinkin’ far fer a sturdy 
tar to swim," said Cork as he 
slumped forward and fell across the 
cowling of the cockpit. 

Leer's laughter burst anew— and 
he was still chuckling when the mo- 
tor began to sputter and die away. 
Then his laughter turned to a shriek 
of terror as the stern of the heavy 
cutter settled into the troughs. 

It was murky and black at ten 
fathoms. The seaweed wafted this 
way and that with the currents and 
only the shells and coral remained 
inert. Despite the ponderous belt 
of gold, even Cork moved— though 
ever so slightly. 

And there was a fish somewhere 
in the picture. One of the species 
which breathes > air and _ which 
nudges its young to the surface with 
its nose that it may breathe. 

It was Davey, surly and black 
and trying — trying to nudge Cork 
to the surface with her snout and 
wondering why he would not come 
to life. 

And Davey contented herself 
with jaunts to the wreck of a gal- 
leon on the rocks a short distance 
away, where she would gorge her- 
self with the small round disks that 
glittered in the darkness. And back 
to Cork she would go — and after 
warding away- the carnivore, she 
would retch golden doubloons over 
him and then wonder why that, 
above all things, did not bring him 
to life again. 

END. 

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